


A Little Unexpected

by CompanionToMisterHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blazing the Jolly trail, F/M, Hoopson, Jolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 31,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompanionToMisterHolmes/pseuds/CompanionToMisterHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thrown together because of a great man's fall. John Watson ends up living with Molly Hooper, both believe the man to be dead, but to Sherlock Holmes, Molly has made a promise to look after his only friend. Sooner or later she'll go beyond her call of duty. Because there's just not enough Jolly love. Rated T for possible swearing and to safeguard and future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is/will lead into a John/Molly multi-chapter fic (that is rather very long). With a sprinkling of Sherlolly friendship and JohnLock bromance. Reichenbach Spoilers and such (although I think we're all past that). I don't really know what else to say. I've been working on this for longer than anything and therefore keeping it to myself, but no more.
> 
> Enjoy.

Molly Anne Hooper, along with the rest of humanity was unaware that the 'great' Sherlock Holmes was in fact, alive.

Sherlock knew how to cheat death without the knowledge transferring to any 'lesser mortal'; yes, Molly had helped him, but he had never let on what anything had meant, what his final experiment in the gloomily lit labs of St. Bart's was really for.

He had said he needed her, she was the one person with significance in his life that Moriarty, and even himself, had managed to gloss over. Sherlock Holmes needed Molly Hooper for many reasons, not only in that night to help him defeat his own end, but also after the world and her thought him dead.

He needed her to look after the few he would leave behind, to be strong for Mrs Hudson, Lestarde and most of all Doctor John Watson. He needed her to prove him not a fraud once he had been dead for a month… 'that is, of course, only if it comes to that Molly.' He needed her to make sure no person beside himself and Moriarty were allowed onto the roof. He needed her to switch shifts so that she wouldn't be asked to complete his post mortem, 'I may have been informed that I posses no heart, but to let a college… no, a friend, go any further than the identification of my corpse would be more than heartless.'And finally he needed her to believe that his plans had failed and that his fall was the final step he was to take amongst the living.

He had worked in almost solidarity that night, Molly only there, close by, a hand if he required one, a caffeine source when his body cried for the basic life preservers, and in one weak moment a shoulder to cry on (that one shocked them both).


	2. A Great Man's Fall

The day of 'The World's Only Consulting Detective's' death Molly Hooper let silent tears streak her face at the sound of a gunshot, Molly cried at the screams from the hospital's windows and Molly sobbed at the thud to the ground followed by the unmistakable sound of a crash team with lost hope.

Although unexpected to Molly, Sherlock Holmes had known of the strong possibility that John Watson would be admitted to St Bart's A&E not long after his fall. Of course Sherlock would be right, he always is… was.

At the sight of a broken John, her tears spilled once again, pulling the unsuspecting doctor into a rushed tear stained embrace. She cried for John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, she cried for London, and finally she cried for herself, she'd lost a friend and a once unrequited love (she was not in the right mind to question whether she had really loved him, she had known it was certainly more of a crush for sometime).

Through strained, unmanly sobs John found a broken and distant voice.

"He said… told me he was a fraud, that I should tell you, Mrs Hudson and Greg, of course he called him Lestrade…" to which Molly and John shared a pained chuckle; "…Said he hired him, hired Moriarty…" John spat the name as if it were the vile disease he believed him to be, "… What if it was a lie Molly? I—I'm not even sure I lost a friend, what if I just lost a lie?... I know I've lost hope, Sh—Sher—he was my only constant, a constant truth, a constant source of disbelief and an utter git but always there to be one… now what?... Oh God, he's gone. And 221B, how am I meant to look at that mess and not think of him, and not crumble…"

John's grief began to show glimpses of anger as he thought of unpaid rent and poor, frail Mrs Hudson; "… Selfish arse could have tided up, paid rent, anything before he just upped and bloody left." Rubbing comforting circle's into the thin layers of shirt and summer jacket above John's heated yet shivering skin, Molly listened intently to his words, although lost in her own mind's loss for mere moments.

"Damn him!" John's voice was prepared to be a clear shout, filled with the rage he had once possessed for his psychosomatic limp, but as it left his body it was a soft whimper that was muffled by Molly's damp shoulder.

He inhaled deeply as both Molly and himself loosened their hold on one another in an attempt to make some form of eye contact. Through the red rings of puffy eyes and streaks of watery mascara, John saw someone as broken as he now felt, putting up a front that would have fooled most anyone, the strong exterior of someone in possession of more than enough loss to fill a lifetime, a practiced bluff.

"John, I am so sorry." Her voice would have wavered if it were one decibel higher, a few tears still spilled across the curve of her cheek and into the unpracticed downward curve of her thin lips; but her stance remained ridged even within the grasp of the softened army doctor.

"I'm sorry too, Molly, and here I am ranting and raving, being selfish with my feelings." Although he felt hollow, ripped apart, terrified and angry, control over his emotional state had been drilled into him during his youth and his army days and no matter how much he didn't want to care about the now colourless woman in front of him, logic dictated that she had lost someone of almost equal significance in her life, and if they could find comfort in one another, maybe the heart a genius had just ripped out would return and mend that little bit quicker.

"No you're not. We are all selfish when we loose someone, we're human. And you've lost someone that you loved and trusted, but John, you have to continue that trust in him, he must have had a reason, there must have been logic there. You were his only friend John... And even though he pretended that he didn't care, he would not have put you through any of this if there were another option, he wouldn't cause you pain or heartache without reason to; he's not a fake, you know that... I know that... Mrs Hudson and Greg know that." Molly's hands lay with a firm grip on John's shoulders, she'd made one final promise to Sherlock and being strong for John, not letting his trust waver, would keep the promise to a dead man. Molly was good at being strong, she was strong for her Mother when her father had passed away, she was strong for herself when her mother had followed him, and she would be strong now, for a man who'd lost his brother-in-arms.

"And as for the rent and the mess of 221b, I have a spare room that has plenty of, well, room. And before you even think of objecting you're staying with me, because even if you don't want my support, you're sure as hell getting it." Her voice had raised slightly as her tears had finally halted for at least a moment, Molly had gained the attention of A&E staff and patient alike, not that a pathologist and army doctor sobbing in the midst of the general public and their idiocy related injuries hadn't. "C'mon, this is a stupid place to stay, I'm taking you back to mine."

"And just when I'd seen it all, Molly Hopper is now complete with full sentences, strength beyond anyone I've yet to know and a bloody persuasive nature." John's face had brightened as the tirade of words had fallen from Molly's lips, it was for mere seconds but it had made him almost forget the hell that was breaking loose in his chest cavity, it fell again as the next words formed upon his tongue. "I'll have to get some stuff though, clothes, or something."

"Although you'll have to face it at some point, I don't think now is the best time to be at 221b, I mean look at us." She was near to pointing out how a visit to 221b would only feel cold, emphasising the lifelessness of a once vibrant flat, and it would be likely to cause some form of breakdown, if not in John then in herself, but thought better of it. "I have some clothes and bits from when Dad stayed in London, with me, to have his treatment, it's been a few years, but it's all clean. I didn't have the heart to get rid of any of it."

"Thank you." Was his faint reply, practically mouthing the words, she had just saved him from himself, from the war that raged inside of him, for the second time that day, and that thank you was for more than a promise of a bed and some old clothes. They fell into a silence that lasted the cab ride to Molly's second floor flat, it's modernity and clutter free surfaces a welcome contrast to the dark Victorian feel of 221b.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this, I will try my hardest to update regularly, but I apologise in advance for any late updates. If you've read any of this, I love you. :)


	3. A New Borrowed Home

John entered the home of Molly Hooper, tired, drained and emotionally exhausted. His clothes crumpled, skin rough and mind in disarray. The loss of Sherlock looked set to take it's toll for the forseable future and it seemed any energy his life had regained was to be sucked from him, leaving him limp and lifeless. Molly didn't look much better than he felt, but a smile adorned her face nonetheless, in an attempt to keep her emotional state distanced from not only John, but herself. It was almost working.

Changing the sheets and making up the bed that had served her father when he was at his lowest physical trough, was the thing that pushed Molly over the edge. It reminded her of how much she had lost and how many people had slipped through her fingers into the unruly clutches of death. So, wrapped in a half made duvet, pillows thrown in haphazard anger against the walls, she let herself cry selfishly, it wasn't fair that she should loose every person who she had fought for, every living breathing human who ever meant anything to her, who meant the world and more to her, turned to dust and ash. Through her wracked sobs and her muffled toneless words she heard the slight sniffles of the man she had momentarily forgotten had been stoically sitting on her sofa, and through the uneven layers of the bedspread that covered her she felt to comforting circles, usually her job to administer, being rubbed on her back. When both sobs and sniffles had subsided into silence, seconds passed as hours as both gained comfort from the other's warmth.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

48 hours had passed since a selfish man had taken a fall, and 36 hours of silent comfort and aimlessly meandering round his new borrowed home, John's searing pain had turned to a dull ache, almost seconds passed without his name clouding John's vision. The sounds of soft breath came from the living room, Molly was the first to fall into a restless sleep that lasted longer than the blink that started the notion, still in three day worn clothes, uncomfortable and not quite fitting on her pale green sofa. Wait, I didn't noticed her sofa was green. John hadn't really noticed anything about Molly's home, and so in those seconds, that were barely moments, in which his mind was not filled with a shock of black curls matted with blood and rain, John decided to finally see, nee observe, a flat that was now his own.

Molly's flat was not small, but quaint, each room had it's own colour scheme, and from the front door, with the doors open, most every room was visible. It was nowhere near the size of 221b, but it's clutter-less floors a crisp cream walls, that let the light bounce around the space given, gave a more open and less stuffy feel than John's previous residence.

The living room, dining room and kitchen all fell into one open plan area, with only a wide archway as separation, if John were taller, and lying down he could be in all three rooms at once. The pale green sofa that Molly was sprawled across, faced the opposite corner of the room. Not up against a wall, but just in front of the archway, it gave a good view of the TV that was nestled into the join of two floor to ceiling bookshelves, painted a pastel green that mirrored her upholstery. The lower shelves contained DVDs that ranged from SciFi to RomCom and stand-up through to SitCom and if you looked closely a rather extensive collection of well worn Disney VHSs lay behind them. Her books spanned a range of authors, a range of recommended ages for reading and a range of hideously large medical text books and journals; it was clear that Molly had been published in a few, as those that contained her work and research stood in their own section of the bookshelf that neatly above on the thick sturdy wooden shelf had a swirly 'Molly's' painted in a dull pale gold.

The floor of these three rooms was a pale wood, that added to the modernity of the London flat, although the cream rug that covered much of the sitting room's floor added to the warmth of Molly's home; it was thick and soft underfoot and John wandered if, having a cat, Molly had chosen a moveable rug over a carpet so she could roll it up and take it to the dry cleaners, rather than spending any hours she had away from her busy job, using several expensive and pungent products to clean and scrub at a carpet. A square wooden coffee table, clearly painted cream by Molly herself, gave a victorian charm he was sure to miss, and it sported some impressive coffee and teacup rings. She had a few pictures in multiple mix and match frames, clearly gifts, hanging from the walls, perched on the window sill (of the bookshelf-less wall) or sitting in front of the dustier books; the pictures seemed to have a pattern of Molly at varying ages, mostly with one or both parents, or more recent photos of Molly and a rather attractive women he seemed to recognise, probably from Barts then. 

There was one photo that certainly caught his eye, it sat in a green and gold frame that matched the room to a tee, which could only mean Molly had bought this one herself. specifically for the picture it contained. It had caught his eye though, not because of the frame, but the familiar faces that shone on the glossy paper, a man he hardly recognised and a face he couldn't stop remembering next to a bemused but, as always, smiling Molly. Mike had insisted upon it, 'you're practically morgue staff, you're here enough, and each team in the faculty needs a representative picture of the staff, new rules!', Molly was hired by Mike so didn't have an out, John (if he remembered correctly) 'couldn't resist a picture with a pretty woman' and Sherlock was genuinely afraid of reduced access to equipment and body parts, if he declined. The picture made him smile, but he wasn't yet sure if it was genuine.

Moving out from the living room, the dining room was nothing special, just a few more mismatched frames, a wide clear window and a large pastel blue dining table that emphasised Molly's penchant for hand painting secondhand classic furniture. The only wierd thing was that, even though the table was a large rectangle only two chairs occupied it, both of different styles but upholstered in the same pale floral fabric, one more worn than the other. As you passed through, you stepped into the modern (and it seemed hardly used) kitchen, in a contrast to the lighter wood of the floors and the maintained cream of the walls, the cupboards that lined the walls and the countertops, in which sat a ceramic sink, were a dark wood. There was no extra colour in the room, apart from the curtains that were the same green as those in the other two rooms and the myriad of colourful, spotty, stripy and floral utensils that littered the surfaces and filled the draws; unlike the other rooms the kitchen seemed to have no strict colour pattern and alongside the plates of many different colours and designs, it reminded John of the brick-a-brack sales he would visit with his Mum in his pre-teens.

John found it mind-numbingly beautiful to stroll around Molly's home, just those three rooms alone, drawing out ideas of Molly's character, being shocked by the uniformity of it all, the colour schemes; then being extremely less surprised by the brick-a-brack nature of what appeared from a distance to be chic.

As he passed into the tiny hallway, John peered into the simple bathroom with classic blue and white tiled walls and floors and the occasional sea blue ornament, it was quite basic and instead of the shower he had become accustomed to, there was a large ceramic bath pushed up against the right hand wall and in hitting distance of the door. There was a simple mirrored cabinate and daring to take a look inside he found more toothbrushes than was customary for a single woman with no housemates and less bubbly, smelly things than he would have guessed.

The door opposite the bathroom, he identified as his, it had been where, when on autopilot, he had gone to an exhausted and vulnerable Molly. At some point he remebered finally making the bed with the milatry presicion he was trained to, but again had not noticed the room on a whole. The room would certainly have been larger if it weren't filled with a double bed, in comparison to the rest of the house this room was darker, a deep blue covered on of the walls and a darkwood wardrode sat next to the door, the window was directly above the bed and the windowsil was again used to host frames and trinkets, although it was 'spare' the room felt lived in. John knew why the bed was large and pictures of Molly and her mother filled the walls, why there was a collectors edition Aston Martin toy by the bed, Molly's father clearly had taste.

John daren't look in a lady's room, and that's all that remained, Molly's room. If John were less of a gentleman and the door were slightly more agar he would have see a room of a somewhat odd shape, and clearly that of a woman's. It lacked the splash of pastel colours that seeped into the other rooms and was a stylish pallette of beige and browns, there was a somewhat pretentious canvas above her double bed that took on the same colours of the room, trinkets lined the windowsil once again and this time in matching wooden frames pictures of her parents and friends sat in the unoccupied spaces of the walls, opposite the bed was a long corridor lined with an integrated wardrobe taking up most of the wall space (seemingly unessecary for the pathologist fashion forgot, but for fashion forward nights out Molly it held as much as a girl dreams) and sat in the corner it created with the wall was a petite cream vanity table, that was cluttered with the little makeup, fragrance and jewellery Molly owned. It wasn't as girly as you would expected from the cherry jumpered woman, but it held the class of the person you got to know in Molly Hooper.

As John re-entered the living room, Molly stirred. She normally awoke from naps on the sofa with a slight smile gracing her lips, as she remembered the faint dreams of beautifully lost worlds or Meena's drunk dancing, but the moments of sleep she caught was smashed with the thought of two broken men, and she awoke with a frown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this became quite a lengthy descriptive chapter of Molly's home, but in my first draft it was so glossed over that I felt that the place inside my head, the place they're about to share really deserved a little description (and then things got a little out of hand). Also sorry for the almost abrupt ending, there was going to be more but it seemed better than chapter 3 had that responsibility (see you hopefully in a week) and thank you so much for reading :)


	4. Orange Peel and Upside Down Penguins

Within the few weeks that lead up to the funeral an uncommon sense of domesticity had taken hold of Molly Hooper's quaint home. Molly and John's strength for each other out weighed their sorrow; as for the funeral arrangements, those responsibilities were taken away from the two as Mycroft's guilt, money and power took over.

 

What shocked John and Molly most of all is that, in the first three days of their cohabitation, constant frowns had formed to momentary smiles and the tears, that had almost become commonplace, dried. Through their mutual loss, being pushed together to comfort one another, someone they hardly knew, it had been easier than expected for the two people who had loved Sherlock so dearly to now go moments without contemplating his bitter end, something neither had expected. Both Molly and John had time off from work, paid bereavement leave, and with that time distanced from their own lives, put into a little bubble, it would have been difficult not to dwell upon the Sherlock, his final moments, his final words, and the label of 'Fraudulent Detective' that was plastered across every newspaper, gossip magazine and mentioned at least once an hour on the 24hour news, if they were alone.  

 

Living in such close quarters for over a week, the only time they were not by each other sides were in the times they slept or cooked, so, it was easy to discover the other's quirks, and how much that, unbeknown to even Sherlock himself, they had in common. Time to talk, was time to learn and in the avoidance of all and any Sherlock related topics they learnt about each others lives, the ones that did not revolve around a man that was no longer there. Both understood a want for adventure, for the thrill of the chase or solving the puzzle, but also a need and love to have a comfortable day-to-day routine, and both had found this in their work. 

 

Work was a very large part of Molly's life, it was difficult to rid yourself of the smell of death and feel up to a social life and the awkward hours kept her sleeping or busy. Of course before John had meet Sherlock, his medical training and army life had not left much time for pursuing other activities, and when he had come back to the medical profession and running after a sense of adventure the hours John kept were as awkward as Molly's, if not more so. Both practicing Doctor's of a sort; Molly had found out, when telling how her father's illness and mother's death early on in her life had pushed her into the field, that John's father passing had put him into both fields, his work in medicine and the battlefield. 

 

As they moved onto the lighter topics, something less shrouded in death and war, there were of course the other little things they found they both had in common, silly things, like how they saw potential in the unassuming orange peel and would always save it to dry and fill the room with a fresh sent. They each had their own nervous tick, that, although subtle, would always show when they were apprehensive; Molly rubbing the sensitive skin of her writs or John the hair on the back of his neck. And oddly enough they both found that their adoration of sci-fi was commonplace in both their lives, anything from Back to the Future to the quintessentially British Doctor Who, and, although they were loathed to admit it to one another as it seemed too vulnerable for the new friendship, each had the episodes of the cult programme that was a gateway to their usually closed off emotional outlet. For the army doctor, no stranger to battle and loyalty, and certainly no stranger to romance, he would sit and watch Rory, the last centurion, as he returned and wait, protecting his Amy in the pandorica, protecting his love; he respected the nobility and liked to fancy that he himself would do the same for the woman he loved. For the geeky pathologist, when she knew she was on the verge of tears, she would watch an episode where ten (her Doctor) was about to loose Rose to a parallel world, words lost in his throat and scattered through time, the tears felt more justifiable, less silly this way. And most importantly John and Molly would mix the butter and jam whilst it melted blissfully on the toast, just to make it that little bit tastier, actually after finding this out John showed Molly the illogical magic, that was eating a penguin bar upside down.

 

\---

 

_"But, John, not to sound skeptical... But it's the same both ways, surely it's chocolate, biscuit and chocolate cream all layered together, the same up as down." Molly's giggles didn't back up her logic, but her logic was flawless so didn't really need backing up. It was the first time in a while a smile was not forced onto her lips and graced them naturally instead, John hadn't expected the light feeling in his chest, especially one week after, and one week before the funeral, but upside down penguins were his party trick and smiles from beautiful woman always lighten the heart. Gosh, she is quite beautiful, wait... What? Sobering his thoughts from their unexpected turn, and brandishing the unintimidating chocolate in Molly's face, he spoke, "Just..." He let out a heavy sigh; applying logic to the magic only increased the shock. "Try it, trust me... I'm a Doctor. Also if you don't I'm going to eat the whole pack and tell you none of the pointless jokes."_

_"Fine!" Snatching the wrapper from his hands and unwrapping the chocolate that was already filled with childhood memories and innocent bliss, Molly bit into it upside down, her face screwed up and her noes twitched, it was her 'you're right' face, but John didn't know that yet._

_"So?" The questioning look in his eye gave away his anticipation._

_"You're... And I can't believe I'm going to actually say this, as it defies all logic and sense... Right. And it's so much better!"_

_Of course, John couldn't help but look a little smug. "You know **he** wouldn't even try the bloody penguin biscuit, the joke was 'beneath' him." _

_A silence fell between them, much less awkward than it had been, but filled with the melancholy they welcomed with familiarity._

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the lovely guest (on ff) who asked me to finish this, I hope you mean one day, because there are a hell of a lot of chapters to go before the end, but it will be :) I've written most of it, I'm just adding stuff and editing. (Thank you for all the pleases, I'll do my best).
> 
> There should be other chapter this week as well, as this was a little late as I was drowned in uni work (excuses I know, but it's literally late by half a week). 
> 
> Gosh. I love you all :) I know this is an unpopular ship, but I'm so glad people are enjoying my slightly beloved work :P I'll stop rambling now, sorry.


	5. Spoken Sentiments and Moments Alone

It was safe to say that the day of Sherlock Holmes' funeral was in the diary of many and looked forward to by none, excluding, in John's words, the 'low-life-interfering-inaccurate-scum' of the press. Mycroft's influence and a decoy funeral the other side of London made sure there was little interference from the press, 'Fraud's Forgiven? Funeral Friday' being the least offensive of the many alliterative headlines, so the day ran as smoothly as a funeral could.

It was a simple affair, held in a small church Mycroft and Sherlock used to attend and investigate as young children, the sentiment would have been detestable to the man himself, but the time they had spent as brothers calling upon the faux pas' of the parish, was the time where no grudges were held and the spark of knowledge and deduction both had held close, connected them. Neither brother had believed in a higher power other than themselves, but the funeral was the least Mycroft could do to ease his guilt and give a chance to the few friends Sherlock had somehow collected, and the mother they both held dear, to grieve and gain some form of closure.

There were no more than 20 attendees, but some faces neither John nor Molly recognised, having been introduced to Sherlock's limited family they assumed the rest of the congregation were clients of the great man, and had not suffered the brunt of his wit. This was, of course, confirmed as Mrs Hudson pointed to each of the nameless faces and gave them their miniature backstory that fell upon the unresponsive ears of Watson and Hooper.

Most of the day was a mindless blur to John, his stance ridged and eyes awash with unshed tears, he barely heard a word that fell from the stiff upper lips of those around him, mumbled as if he were underwater. He could remember at one point rising from the pew, legs aching and body somehow exhausted as he brushed past the glossy black of the polished coffin, standing in front of the faces he had forgotten or never known, words of no coherence to him forming neat sentences to those listening.

"Sherlock was a great man, with a great ego. Most felt uncomfortable around his confidence, or fell for his false charm. But to those who saw through that, those who truly knew him, you would know he was a good man. Sometimes it was hard to see, and many times it was barely there, but he saved lives for a living. And those skills he worked tirelessly to maintain, to alleviate himself from the boredom that so easily consumed him, could have turned any lesser man to the side of the villain. He was a hero, no matter how much the world, himself, or at many points, I denied it." He didn't remember saying anything past ego, the next moment he was aware, his arm is around Molly as she stifles the tears his speech provoked, he couldn't even remember sitting down, but he had. To his amazement, but not his surprise, Molly also decided to say a few words, for the first time in a long time stuttering under the presence of Sherlock Holmes.

Molly had felt numb at her mother's funeral, a young girl of 11, not sure how to cope with no mother and a broken father; at the age of 26 as her father finally succumbed to his illness, his funeral was filled with the tears for both parents loss. At Sherlock Holmes' funeral she was somewhere in between, aware of her own sadness, but battling with threatening tears, she wanted to say a final goodbye, something that wouldn't cause Sherlock to turn up his nose, but sentiment won over, as it always would, and she stumbled over her words.

"I... Ummm... Sher- Sherlock Holmes was my friend. I'm more than quite certain that he would have denied that, but he was. I'd known him for 2 years before he decided my name was worthy of space in his vast intellect, but I like to think I earned my place. It was 2 more years before he met John, and pushed through to the good that I suspected was maybe always there. He'd hate this, me talking beyond the realms of pathology and CODs, but he'll just have to put up with it, because it's done. I'll miss him, but if there's even a chance he's up there accidentally insulting my parents, I'll know." A few faint laughs could be caught by some of the back rows as she finished and took her seat. As the service drew to an end, a sleek coffin nestled in the ground and only 4 were left standing around the cool marble of the nondescript gravestone, the silence that had taken over dissipated with the solemn DI. "Sorry, mate. Goodbye." The glare he had received from John told him to say no more and he left as quietly as the crunch of leaves would allow.

Molly, fully aware that John and herself were in needs of moments alone, before they went back to the flat, left earlier than the army doctor and non-housekeeper. "I think I'd best be going, the fridge is a veritable blank canvas." Leaning down she placed a gentle kiss to the cold marble above Sherlock's name. Whispering "and don't you dare complain." Leaving without another word.

Another moment of silence, a moment of Mrs. Hudson's pent up frustration, and then John was truly left alone. He felt he should say a final goodbye, maybe thank the man lying breathless and cold, beneath the layers of grass, dirt and deep mahogany, for his friendship and for Molly. What he wanted to say had tumbled from his mouth in the church, but he wanted to say it with eloquence. John wanted tell Sherlock Holmes that he was the best man he had ever known, that he, against popular belief, was fantastically human at his heart. And most of all John wanted for all of this to be an elaborate lie, for this man to stop his lies, to stop playing the game. Finally gathering the courage, he spoke.

"You... You told me once, that you weren't a hero..."

* * *

Her key scratched the surrounding lock as she struggled with bag-laden arms. It was verging on late, but she was assured that John and most certainly herself had needed that time apart. The Tesco shop had been an interesting one, Molly had a tendency to grief shop and eat, and the bags that were weighing her down were filled with chocolate, ice cream and several packets of gingernuts.

Walking into the blackness of her flat, placing her bags on the dining room table she spun round and turned on the lights. As they flickered into life she was more than certain she would find John somewhere alone in the darkness, and she was proven right at the sight of a man still fully clothed, his coat still around his shoulders, back stiff, head bowed, and eyes closed. His gentle breathes made it clear he was asleep, which shocked Molly a little, although as she thought about his lack of sleep over the past 2 weeks and the emotional release of the funeral it was about time he fell into something akin to sleep. But he deserved to sleep in comfort, in his bed.

"John..." Her voice was soft at first; shocking an ex-military man was never a good idea. "John sweetie..."

He stirred awake, not as asleep as he'd appeared. "Oh... Umm... Molly, you're back early, or is it late."

"It's late, but you were asleep, which is good. Although I think it would be best if you went to bed, I can't imagine a stiff neck would be desirable."

"No, yeah. I'll do that."

As John went to tidy himself up, get ready for bed, Molly put all of the perishable food in the fridge and multiple biscuit packets in the top cupboards. Sighing she lent against the worktop and gathered her thoughts, hearing John's footfalls pulled her out of her stupor.

"Molly?"

"Yeah, John." A small smile graced her lips.

"Just, thank you. For today. For the past two weeks. For everything." He left her with a soft kiss on her cheek and a calmness she hadn't felt in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See 2 in a week, just like I promised. In my first handwritteny one, this chapter was roughly one sentence long, that's changed a little bit, enjoy :)
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely responses both here and on ff.


	6. Gingernuts, Meena and Unnoticed Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today we meet Meena, drink tea, eat biscuits, and are happier than last time (for a bit).

It was one week until Molly and John returned to work, John was to be full days at the clinic, thanks to some favours and acceptance from Sarah, and Molly was to still keep odd hours at the morgue. Spending many off her nights cooped up in the lab, and being on-call over the weekends, but never scheduled for full shifts on the Saturdays and Sundays, much like John.

The week that bridged the gap between funeral and work had not held much in the way of adventure, it had felt odd but peaceful as the two shuffled around the flat, eating pasta at 5 and drinking indefinite amounts of tea, or the bitter coffee that was just how  _he_ had liked it and how neither of them found appealing, but had found it a connection to the lost man.

* * *

On the Wednesday, with few warnings exculding one short text, the pair were visited by Molly's closest and oldest friend, Meena. Meena was terribly worried about Molly, with her little contact to the outside world and the short few word text exchanges, she needed to know how she was after the infamous detective's fall, and she needed to know face to face.

What Meena hadn't expected was for the door to be opened by a disheveled and slightly worse for wear, yet unquestionably handsome man. Of course it was John Watson, and of course the reason for his scruffy clothes and ruffled hair was simply his life's current disarray, but it had been years since Meena had even conceived of the notion that there could be a man in Molly's pastel home, so her mind momentarily jumped to the wrong conclusions and the usual sarcasm and bolstered wit that dripped from her voice faulted. "Oh, hello. Sorry is Molly in. If I've come at a bad time, I can always come back later?"

* * *

John had opened the door to a face he'd seen so many times in the past few weeks, at varying ages and through brilliantly drastic hairstyles, but never face to face.

She was pretty, but  _she isn't Molly... Again, really?_

So this was the Meena he'd heard so much about, and she seemed to be assuming that John was somewhat more than a lodger.  _Well I guess I'm here in ratty clothes with mushed hair and Molly's in the shower, lesser people have jumped to more extravegant conclusions._ "Not bad timing at all, Meena is it? I've heard a lot about you. I'm John, John Watson..." He saw the jolt of recognition in her features, and the false conclusion fall. "And the penny drops. Molly should be through in a minute. Do you want some tea or something, I've been feeling a bit useless lately, but I can still make tea."

A smile fell easily across Meena's face as she told herself not to flirt with a man who's grieving, or a man who could fall for Molly. This rule of the friendship had been quite clear after the fifth of Molly's boyfriends fell for her charms. "Tea'd be lovely, I know it's probably a little insensitive to say this, but please tell me Molly's habit to binge on gingernuts still happens, because a gingernut really wouldn't go amiss."

"It's fine, and yes she really has, although there's a small chance she's eaten them all."

"She was the same with her Dad, even before he'd gone. They used to eat them together, even when it seemed he wasn't strong enough. Not much can beat the healing powers of a gingernut in the Hooper household."

John chuckled lightly and Meena's laughter was a little stronger, finding the light in the darkness was her speciality, something she had in common with Molly Hooper. John was thankful that the friends were alike in this quality, he felt so much stronger with Molly around, so much happier through the pain, but the thought of pity in someone's eyes or their tone would make him weak again.

* * *

The kettle bubbled and boiled, steam misting up the kitchen window; Molly wandered into the kitchen as she heard it, the promise of John-made tea was enough to hurriedly pull on her comfy leggings and her too-large med-school hoodie, scraping back her roughly dried hair. As she made her way through the curved arch that lead to her kitchen, Molly spotted the shock of falsely red hair that could only mean one thing.

"Mee! What are you doing here?" She was bundled into a tight embrace. If it weren't for the difference in height and bone structure, John could have mistaken them for sisters.

They were still bundled in each others arms, girls who had grown up together, learnt how to understand the muffled words of a hug. "I was worried about you Molls, we haven't spoken since it happened. I also thought you'd be in need of the newest Doctor Who box set and some tissues, so I bought you both." John continued to make the tea and search for the biscuits, busying himself as he didn't wish to intrude on something that seemed to personal and vulnerable for Molly.

Molly started to notice she was crying, smiling up at the friend she could always count on. It was inevitable she was still sad, but sometimes it was easy to forget, now it was easy to remember.

* * *

Meena had left late that night, all three had sat on Molly's sofa and watched the adventures of a madman with a blue box. They had talked in the breaks to make tea and restock on biscuits, and to Molly's relief John and Meena had gotten along. Molly had fallen asleep on John's shoulder on more than one occasion and in one such occasion when John had rested his eyes for a moment too long, Meena had snapped a picture; she had even noticed certain glances between the two, that the pair themselves weren't aware they were giving, but thought it best to put it down to a new found familiarity. She had gone home with a packet of gingernuts and a not to be broken promise from Molly, and even John, that they would venture outside to  _'watch something, eat something or do something that will let me break out the new heels'_ upon Meena's request.

* * *

Molly had missed the safety of her lab, missed the puzzle of post-mortems, she was glad of the quiet nights and the uncomplicated paperwork. But returning to the place her plan had failed, where she had lost yet another, had taken its toll and she had on more than one occasion returned home in the early hours of the morning with red rimmed eyes and a fresh packet of biscuits. John had certainly noticed it, having to wake early for work and finding her slumped on the couch without the attempt to walk to a more comfortable sleeping space, dried tear tracks staining her cheeks. It was hard to approach, as work and a need to sleep, would always mean they just missed the other.

When they had finally reached Saturday John took his chance to be there for Molly, sitting next to her and folding her neatly in his arms.

"I could have saved him. And I failed." The tears were fresh as they rolled down her cheeks, she sounded more broken than he had ever realised, more fragile than he had ever cared to notice. "I could have saved him."

John was confused, but grief made fools of us all, and broken sentences always make sense to the minds that deliver them.

"It's okay Molls. There was nothing anyone could do. Not you, not me, not even him, in the end. Don't blame yourself. You'll find work easier everyday, I promise. We'll find a routine, time to talk and eat each day. It'll get easier Molls, I promise."

* * *

And it did, they fell into another routine within weeks. Work became work again, for Molly. And St. Barts began to loose the negativity it had held with a vice like grip in her heart.

The would eat toast together at six, with the jam and butter mixed just how they liked it, as Molly got in from the late shift and John was heading out to the clinic. John saying 'Good Morning', shutting the front door behind him, as Molly uttered a 'Good Night' heading for her room, in need of her bed and a good nine hours.

Molly would potter about the house once she'd woken and dressed, tidying up the bits and bobs that were easy to leave hanging about, doing the ironing she had been dreading and finding excuses not to do for weeks. Then she would cook something simple or pick up the nearest take out menu as John got home from another day filled with runny noses, false ailments, bruised children and ' _you'll need to take these twice a day for two weeks, with food'._ He was always so tired as she got ready for work, after they ate dinner, but then again it worked both ways; heavy workloads and borrowed time to eat and chat meant they were healing, but, the weekend could never come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would be nice to be a little more lighthearted for this one, then some sad happened for which I apologise,but I think it needed to happen.
> 
> Thank you for the response to this so far, you're all my favourite person just for reading so the kudos literally brightens my day :)


	7. Anger, Explanations and Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little short, but it came to a natural end, and also the next chapter will be longer :)

"You knew!" John was trembling; anger was coursing through his veins. "All this time you knew, and you didn't think to tell me?!" The grainy black and white footage, and the mumbled noises of his best friend and the lilt of a criminal mastermind faded to black on Molly's TV.

"I couldn't, he asked me to wait, he trusted me to wait. And Mycroft enforced that." Hot tears streaked her cheeks, forming clear lines from the mascara she'd had stupidly taken the care to wear, for the first time in a month.

_A clear gunshot was heard from the crackling audio and a glimpse of the fallen criminal and the rich dark blood that pooled around his head. John knew the end to this story, he was living it, but that didn't stop the hope that shattered with the final chance's death. The final chance to save him, Greg, and Mrs Hudson, the final chance to save Sherlock from a deathly fall. The screen went black, the device shut off before he had stepped to the ledge. Little did John and Molly know, but it was to conceal the truth of his fate._

"He did it for you, to save you. And I should have saved him, I could have saved him. I failed him, I failed you. I'm so sorry." Her words weren't broken, still strong through her torment. They had to get through this blip, they were friends, and they still needed each other. She couldn't let John leave, couldn't let him go back to the silence of 221b.

* * *

It was one month and two weeks after the fall, and as promised to Sherlock as they had worked on his plans in the lab that night, Molly and Mycroft were releasing selected parts of the footage Sherlock had collected in his confrontation with Moriarty, upon the roof of St Bart's, to the police and selected members of the press, dragging the Sherlock Holmes name from the dirt and into the reputable place it once filled. Mycroft had allowed John to be shown the footage in full before the public knew, upon Molly's request, and of course she was the one to tell him, told him that she knew, told him of their failed plan, told him how he was saved and just how sorry was that she'd starved him of this information until now. John had shouted and for the first time in their acquaintance Molly was scared of the kindly army doctor. But his anger was in vain, he didn't mean it truly, not toward the sweet pathologist anyway, but she was there and this new world with reasons and lacking the questioning of a great man had struck him like a ton of well formed and roughly surfaced bricks. He needed to shout.

They had watched the video in silence and guilt had washed over him as he looked over at a vulnerable Molly. It wasn't her fault.

* * *

"Oh god Molls. No. You did what was right..." He took a deep breath restraining the ferocity that had filled his mind and could easily fill his words. "I'm sorry, for letting shock get the better of me. But don't ever blame yourself for that." And he meant it; no one was to be blamed for the other man's fall, especially not the woman he had tricked into thinking she could save him. No one could have saved him. And John was finally seeing that that included himself.

"Okay." Her voice retained a mousey quality that neither had heard in so long.

He turned to her, the distance between them on the sofa almost un-crossable and so much further than it had ever been before. He didn't want to see Molly so vulnerable, he didn't want her to look so small engulfed by comforters and pale green cushions, and he most certainly didn't want to see the return of abundant amounts of gingernuts. But he needed to know why.

"Molly, you could have told me. I thought you could trust me... I thought I could trust you."

"You can. And I trust you. I really do. But I couldn't tell you, at the start it was because I hardly knew you, and I didn't want to hurt you when you were there already. Then two weeks after - it - I decided to tell you, decided you deserved to know, I felt so foolish, so guilty and I wanted you to know why I came home with red rimed eyes and false smiles. But Mycroft stopped me, I could see it in his eyes when he told me, he was worried about you, said it was because without your grief without that small question niggling in the back of your mind, and without all of the snipers locked away, you wouldn't be safe. I believed him, and I'm sorry. I would have told you but I'd promised two Holmes men I wouldn't and breaking that could have hurt you... And I couldn't live with myself if I let that happen. I'm sorry." She faced the black screen as she talked, she daren't look him in the eye, that invisible contact would break her.

As Molly's words crossed the distance between them, as she spoke truthfully and honestly, words filled with sorrow and meaning, his hand bridged the expanse between them and gave hers a reassuring squeeze, he did understand, and although it hurt him that the truth was kept for so long, he realised he was never lied to, just protected.

"I'm sorry."

Their eyes finally met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the amazing support for this fic, it's so lovely to write for and have my work enjoyed by fellow John/Molly shippers :D


	8. Greg, John, Beer and Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was, when I first came up with the concept of the story, going to be a one shot. But I've always really loved the idea of it slotting in somewhere. This is finally a little more light hearted and continues the nearing unsubtle hints that there may well be love in John and Molly's future :)
> 
> Early update, because the last chapter was short and this is stupendously much longer.

Molly had taken the Friday-night shifts in the lab, as after so much of her life being filled with death, the lab shift reduced her contact with corpses to a minimum, for a pathologist; John had taken to also escaping their now shared flat of a Friday evening, it was his early finish from the clinic, and being alone was still difficult. Even the company of strangers was better than the company of himself and a new embarrassing tendency to watch Molly's Disney VHSs, a loneliness that was only accentuated by Toby's constant need for attention.

So every Friday night, Molly was safely tucked away, amidst piles of paper work and blood cultures, in the lab, whilst John was somewhat drowning his sorrows in a pub equidistant from Molly's flat and St Bart's. Never wanting to be too far from her presence but not wanting to look to creepy, following the woman to work, for a reason he was still not quite sure.

As it happened this pub was also frequented by Scotland Yard's almost-ex-but-saved-by-some-key-evidence-DI Lestrade.

In the almost two months John had been living with Molly his limited excursions, excluding a funeral and the occasional evenings out with Molly and Meena (Molly's-perfectly-nice-and-attractive-but-John-hoped-she-wasn't-trying-to-set-him-up-with-as-he-was-coming-to-realise-something-about-a-certain-pathologist- _(wait am I?)-_ friend), had made his interactions with Greg Lestrade minimal and awkward. Greg blamed himself in some small part for the fall, and even John had blamed Greg for his part due to his doubt in Sherlock, that was until the evidence had come to light, and Molly had rationally talked him out of his accusations in a heated debate about Greg's appearance at Sherlock's funeral. So when Greg walked into John's now regular pub, five weeks after the funeral John almost felt unsure if he were ready to continue and reconstruct this broken friendship, with a man he had only just forgiven for his part in his best friend's suicide.

"Hey… John? Is that you? God, it's been a while… too long in fact."  _Well, he's spotted me, there's no going back. Oh God, this is like bumping into an ex._  John rubbed the back of his neck.

"Hi, Greg. Yeah, yeah it has. Still five weeks doesn't feel so long in some respects."

Of course Greg knew exactly what John was hinting at, and Greg believed himself ready for this conversation, ready to console and restart a friendship that although currently ignored and forgotten needed to be reignited for the sake of the two parties involved. That brilliant, but aggravating, man shuffling or more accurately jumping from his mortal coil should be no reason for two mates to be avoiding the other's painful glances.

"I'll get this round in, umm… we need to talk, have done for a while. And there's no time like the present, eh?"

John had enough alcohol in his system by this point in the late evening, even without Greg buying him another half, that he found making light of the situation would ease the tension, at least for a few moments.

"Jesus, Greg. Are you breaking up with me? I can change; whoever she is… she's not me. You said you loved me." With the tone in his voice on the sarcastic side, it put the friends slightly more at ease.

* * *

Silence had enveloped the pair of men, in the corner booth until at least half of the two fresh drinks were drained. This conversation was harder to get into than to have, in any case, obviously the two men had this thought simultaneously.

"I'm sorry, for what I did. I never thought he was a fraud, the Yard pay me, even when it is to arrest a mate." "I'm sorry, for not saying a word to you for five weeks, even blaming you in the smallest amount for his jump, you must have been grieving too and I was being pig-headed."

The chorus of their simultaneous speech, although drowned out by the general cacophony of pub white noise, the flow of their words was heard on both sides, so they laughed and slap-on-the-back-hugged, a symbol of each other's forgiveness and renewed friendship. They no longer needed to have this conversation, it was had, over with, simple, done.

"So, now I guess we're mates again… How's the wife?" John knew it was a sensitive topic, but current events had passed him by and no other small talk was at his fingertips.

"Finally  **ex-** wife, finally out of my flat, and finally out of my life."

"If there weren't so many 'finally's in that sentence, I'd say that I'm sorry. But you seem to be relived… Sh – S – uh – That git wasn't right was he? About the P.E. teacher?" The man's name still difficult to force from his tongue.

"Almost. Thankfully she had some 'higher' standards. He was an English professor, a highly acclaimed one at that. Not as handsome as me, but not in a cross-fire at weekends or coming home at ungodly hours or not for days on end. Difficult to get back in the dating game though, there are few single gorgeous women milling around the Yard, and I barely escape that place these days."

This brought a soft chuckle to John's lips. "And the one time you do, you bump into me, in a dark musky pub, with probably far less single gorgeous woman milling around."

He was right of course; this may have been his local. But unless he suddenly had eyes for Brenda (the 60 year old landlady) behind the bar, he wasn't going to be in luck. "Yeah, well I've got larger and a mate. I'm not complaining."

"Hah. Yeah."

Naturally that's when a curious thought sprung on Greg. The last woman he'd seen John in a relationship with, had walked out on him because of various Sherlock related escapades and his being called out at all hours to do Sherlock's bidding; and although Sherlock's death and John's loss was not recent, he had expected the one man who had caused the cold detective to show glimpses of warm humanity to be in a much worse state than the man in front of him appeared.  _It can't be Harry's influence she's still attending AA meetings and trying to work things through with Clara, wrapped up in her own little world. There must be someone; there must be a 'lady' in his life. Still got a few deductive skills up my sleeve._

"So, how's your love life Johnny Boy?" The small amount of intoxication on the Detective's part made this easier to speak, but the question still seemed awkward on his lips.

"Not really existent if you must know." He felt tense. John hadn't really thought beyond the friendships he'd gained after the fallout, he hadn't let his conscious mind slip into the faint shouting of his subconscious, the faint shouting of a name.  _And dammit, why do I have to realise this now, why do I have to realise this at all?_

"Oh, come on John. There's got to be someone, you don't get that look it your eye for nobody, especially at the mention of 'love life'. C'mon that secret smile's not so secret. I want a name." Greg was fully aware he sounded like a gossiping teenage girl, but there was always room in a cooper's dreary life for gossip, especially something that seemed to be cheering up a mate who he would have assumed to be beyond hope.

"It's no one, honestly Greg, nothing. Well Molly Hooper's could never be no one."  _Did I just say that?_  John hadn't expected any name to slip from his lips, he was keeping up the façade perfectly even keeping it from himself, but it seemed the presence of Greg and six pints caused it to slip. It was like his heart was telling Greg the information before it'd informed his own thoughts. "We're just mates, she was there for me when there wasn't anyone else, strong for me, strong for herself. She even has me staying round hers, as if we protect each other from the world. Anyway she wouldn't take a look at this broken man twice."

Greg looked stunned this was certainly new information. All of it. "Molly Hooper? Bart's resident 'what's a lovely girl like you working in a place like this?' pathologist?"

"Yeah, I suppose so. Since – it – I've made a new home in her spare room. She is so much more than I ever realised she could be. So much more behind that Sherlock induced bashfulness."

A small smirk found it's way to the intoxicated lips of the Detective Inspector. "Ha. It all makes sense now. Every time I've visited the morgue for reports, whenever I bump into her. She get's it, 'that look', the secret smile if anyone mentions your name, I always assumed it was pity or a mask to hide the grief, or both – no offense mate – how could I have missed it… John, that's brilliant."

John heaved a sigh that held a fresh weight that had been waiting to drop. "It would be slightly more brilliant if I wasn't just her friend. I'm pretty sure she's trying to set me up with her best friend Meena, who, lovely as she is, it just isn't right. I'm reliant on stolen glances"  _that I didn't even realise I was stealing_  "and that warm feeling I get if she falls asleep on my shoulder on a ratty clothes Doctor Who days."

"I'm going to stop you there. If you are having 'ratty clothes Doctor Who day's' with this girl, in fact any form of 'staying in day' with her now, you are sure as hell going to marry her one day." It was quite a bold statement, but the slightest flash of hope crossed John's eyes and Greg knew something more than the man himself. It was how he'd fallen madly in love with his ex-wife after all, and how she'd fallen for the professor.

John chuckled lightly. "Whatever you say, Greg. She couldn't even remember my name a year ago. Anyway, she's all brilliant and I'm all broken."

"And who, may I ask, is helping you no longer be broken?"

John's tone was soon resigned and thoughtful, he wasn't sure whether it was the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream or that Greg was making a genuinely good point, maybe it was both; but the urge to ask Molly out was near overwhelming.  _It's definitely the six pints._

"Molly." He almost whispered.

"See! Just as I said, she'll marry you and you'll be happy. If not, I'm lonely and she's single, sweet and very pretty."  _That'll get him._

"No. You bloody well don't. Do you really want our friendship to be skating on such thin ice so very soon after we reconciled?"

After a hand gesture of mock surrender from Greg, the conversation turned to that of the stereotypical 'blokes in a pub' drawl. The game. Rants about the ex-missus. Politics. Surprising himself, the occasional slip up on John's part of the many qualities of Molly Hooper, ever more so as he became more inebriated. Finally the conversation slurred and slowed and the distant noises of a pub in full swing turned to the clatter of glasses being cleared and heavy doors closing for the final times that night.

Awoken from his daze by the clank of glass, as their empties no longer littered the table, Greg spoke. "You know I never stopped believing in him, no matter how irritable, or um… irritating he could be, he was a mate, no matter whether he denied it. I wanna show you something, it's silly really…" he trailed off as he prized his wallet from his crumpled suit jacket, a feat that increased in difficulty as he decreased in sobriety. From his wallet, where the pictures of kids or past loves were usually hidden, he pulled out a folded A4 poster, unfolding the item and smoothing it to the tarnished wooden surface, he took as much care as his current sate would allow.

Upon said A4 sheet was a picture of Sherlock Holmes, looking as somber as his natural state and thankfully excluding that 'ear hat' he had so deeply despised. Across his eyes was a bright yellow paint smudge, reminiscent of the graffiti from the case that had lead to John's ASBO, it was contrasting to the black and white portrayal of Sherlock, and within the smudge letters that contained a roughish charm spelt out 'I Believe In Sherlock Holmes.' Although John had spotted the so-called campaign across the city, on the dank walls of underpasses or on the walls of 221b when he had ventured back for clothes, that Greg had one such poster in his wallet brought a tear to his eye that neither man acknowledged.

"You want to know that best bit, the person who made this, started the campaign…"

"Who?" John interrupted, anticipation lacing his voice.

"Sally Donavon."

"Hah… But she, him… Freak?" John had somewhat lost his eloquence somewhere between the sixth beer and the second whiskey.

"I know. Then again, I suppose he never told you; those two used to be friends, well Sherlock's version, where his snide remarks weren't so snide, and even when she gave as good as she got they could laugh about it sometimes, they shared cases and she even persuaded him to venture out to one of the Yard's Christmas do's. Then the second she became involved with Anderson, he lost any ounce of respect for her, not so much because he was a married man, as much as, he is a monumental idiot. So his snide remarks regained a grandeur he only supplied to those he disliked and to her he became 'The Freak'. No  **real**  love lost there, but it was a great shame to see an amicable work relationship with a Holmes brother dissipate." He took a breath, remembering the story, Sherlock Holmes before John Watson was strange, unfamiliar territory. "You know the moment Sally found out, something snapped, she dumped Anderson's sorry arse, fought to keep me at my position in the force and started all this…" He gestured toward the poster he held so dear, although replicas littered the streets, this was the first copy. It was sobering.

"Wow. I never knew, if only he did manage to keep another friend, maybe he wouldn't have…"

"Probably not, mate."

Greg patted John comfortingly on the shoulder as they began to leave, hit by the crisp night air and the need to put on a jacket. As Greg wandered to the taxi rank, with a new found appreciation for John's strength and the strength of mixing drinks at his age, he wondered how he had missed that a certain Sargent Donavon was a gorgeous single woman who milled around the Yard, and there was no harm in asking her out for coffee, he was certainly going to need one come his shift.

John stumbled the short walk home, no longer wallowing in self pity and with the fleeting thoughts of a certain pathologist he would ignore this inevitable hangover for, as they both awoke form long nights to a companionable breakfast and childish Saturday afternoon TV.


	9. Meena, Molly, Discos and Admissions

It's a strange thing, having your heart know something that hasn't even crossed your mind.

Weeks had followed John and Greg's meeting peacefully, amongst predictable routine, with unpredictable surprises. Nights out with Meena could never fit a schedule, could never fit properly in the lives of those above the age of thirty, but they lacked the mundane and filled a restful week with hints of reckless abandon. After John had told Greg of his heart's taken fancy, Meena astute as ever was the next to figure it out. Okay, so she didn't spot it, yet, in the eyes' of the army doctor; but Molly had always been her book to read. Meena had let it slid, for three nights out and four lunches, just her and Molly, knowing full well the almost hopeless woman in front of her, with the wistful looks and brilliant mind, hadn't yet caught on to the subtle notion in her heart.

And it was hard to catch on, Molly had certainly reasoned that the comfort she felt around John, the pulse that flew between them from a simple touch had been no more than the shared grief of two lost souls. And, of course, many times it had been, a few times it still was, but electricity needs a source and energy should never simply appear from nowhere, and sometimes, just too look at him could be that spark that tried to start a fire. Denying it was also all well and good, but the man practically lived in her pocket and her in his, it was hard not to. Molly wasn't going to break the social habit of a lifetime and venture outside when not heavily pushed by Meena, and John had returned from the army with few friends and only dotted acquaintances, now after loosing the thing that got him racing out the door, Molly and, on a few Friday night pub occasions, Greg were all he had.

It was at a poorly thought through 60's night, at the awfully cramped club that lay on the street of Meena's apartment block, that Molly's heart and mind conferred and came to some form of agreement. And in the second Meena saw it cross Molly's eyes, the second she saw something solid in her gaze towards the handsome doctor in the rather flattering Beatles costume, (even if his sandy blonde hair didn't meet the description), she dragged Molly onto the dance floor where the noise and commotion would provide them with a moments privacy, as she pulled her through to the ladies loo.

"You're telling me  **everything**." Meena shouted over the loud treble of 'All My Lovin''.

As they entered the bright room filled with sinks and woman reapplying various degrees of make-up, the door swinging closed behind them and muffling the overwhelming sounds of the club, Molly answered Meena's request. "What do you mean, Mee? There's no everything to tell you about, the hospitals a little low on gossip."

"There most certainly is an everything, Molly Anne Hooper!" As her voice rose it cleared the few remaining stragglers from the room, certain these two women were in need of privacy, or something was sure to kick off. "You fancy John Watson, more than that. You're falling for him!"

"I do not know what you're talking about Meena Grace Shawnsy. John's my friend, just because you jumped to the wrong conclusion the first time you meet him, doesn't mean anything's happened. He's my flat mate, there's nothing else there." Molly held a confidence in her voice it was a practiced lie, she had told herself it enough times that she believed it true, her eyes, on the other hand, betrayed her.

"Wrong. C'mon, you can't deny it. He's handsome, he's kind, he understands how you could tolerate the company of a man like Sherlock Holmes, he's perfect." A smugness exuded from every pore.

"Yes, a perfect friend, like you." Even now, she seemed blind to her own economical truth.

"Well, Molly dear, if you don't like him in that way, I could certainly see myself asking out Doctor Handsome." At this Molly flushed a bright and distinctively 'Molly likes a boy' red, with certain amounts of anger, jealousy and embarrassment flooding through her veins.

" **NO**! – I mean no, no, you wouldn't want to do that, because of – because of so many reasons and ummm…" she trailed off as her muddled and panicked mind scrambled around for reasons Meena and John could never be 'Meena  **and**  John', she came up with none.

"Fine –fine- fine- fine- FINE! I like him. A- a lot. But please for the love of all that is good in the world, don't tell him; Sherlock's only been umm… gone for 2 and a bit months and we're – he's still working through a lot of stuff." She hadn't exactly expected such a blunt truth to be released to the world in the brightly lit toilets of a shoddy 60's disco, but there it was. The first time she had admitted it to anyone, including herself.

"Okay, a word shall not pass my lips. But Molly, Molls, I've seen the way he looks at you; I mean who could resist those big brown doe eyes, that nervous giggle, or your choice to slice open dead people for a living. You're the perfect package." She added jokingly." But seriously you're both as bad as each other, have you really not realised the way his eyes follow you, and only you."

"I noticed him chatting up those girls at the bar, Mee." Molly looked deflated, emotional relief at her admittance was a distant memory,  _now comes the 'unrequited love' crap,_  she thought to herself.

"Seriously, you must be deaf, he was not chatting them up. Unless, that is, 'me and Molls have been living together since we lost our friend, she, I mean her and Meena are the only reason I go out at all' is some new pick up line I've not heard before. And Molly, darling, I've heard them all." She rolled her eyes as she remembered all the times she'd been asked if 'it hurt when she fell from heaven' or how many potential alphabet rearrangements had been proposed to her by some foolishly drunk men.

"I get it Meena, you are the one all the guys fall in love with. And I'm the shoulder they cry on when you get bored and move on." Molly remembered a lot more, 'thanks Molls, you're like a sister to me' than the cheesy chat up lines of admirers.

"But Molls, you'll get this one, the guy that means something. If you just  **talk to him...**  or snog him, I have no preference."

Molly started to look like the faint memory of the timid teenager she had once been, she walked through the swinging door, shouting behind her friend she had left behind in her rush. "You know that I can't do that. It's too soon."

Finding John and explaining where her and Meena had disappeared to, but not alluding to why, she left him again as Meena caught up, wandering over to the bar, and ordering the first stiff drink she had had since her Uni days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank you all for your continued support. You're all brilliant!


	10. "Johnny Boy"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must apologise for missing a week, I'm sure I have some excuses somewhere, but I know you don't want to bore yourself with those. All I will say is: Sorry, and in lieu of a chapter last week, I give you an extra long chapter here, and another uploaded straight after. Enjoy.

* * *

"Johnny Boy!" John had opened the front door to a rather enthusiastic looking Meena, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a pack of cards in the other. "I must warm you, 'Burn' is about the only half decent card game I can play."

John was a little shocked to see Meena on a Friday night, not only was he sure she'd always had one date or another lined up every Friday he'd known her, but she must have know it was Molly's turn for the late shift. She must have been aware, also, that they had never spent longer than the ten minutes Molly would excuse herself to refresh her lipstick, alone together, they may have been friends, but in those moments they had only just escaped the casual whistling of awkward silences.

Plus, rare occasion though it was, John had company; the company of a stressed, grey, stubbled DI, but company none the less.

"Hey Mee, not to sound rude, but you know Molly's at work, right?" Meena nodded with the enthusiasm that had greeted him as he'd opened the door.

"I sure do. Which is why I came over, thought you might need some company... Thought you might have some clinic gossip?" By this point, Greg, beer in hand, and having put 'the game' on pause had wandered the few steps it was to the door, intrigued by the female voice, and the familiarity it'd held with 'Johnny Boy'. "But I see you've already got the company... Which means I'm here for the gossip."

"Meena, you know medical gossip isn't my thing, much less the gossip of my ex."

"Okkkay, so I am here to share wine and play cards or watch," she leaned in the door to see they were half way through a match. Tottenham vs. Man U. At least she recognised the team names. "The football, with my friend and his rather handsome friend."

It was only then John realised his manners, Meena was still standing outside with the evening light fading and the mid autumn breeze biting at the skin beneath the few layers she had chosen to wear. "God, Mee. Sorry come in before you catch your death  _or_ I look like a proper arsehole."

"You were certainly close there, Doctor Watson." She wore her wicked grin, that matched brilliantly to the deep purple floating dress and black denim jacket she had matched with her regularly worn and near breaking point biker boots. She dumped herself into the center of Molly's plush sofa, she was only small and it could easily accommodate three, she patted the two spots next to her and as a bemused Greg and chuckling John sat themselves down she snatched the remote from the table in front of her, pressed play. She then, upon seeing the two men were sufficiently supplied with beer, uncorked the wine bottle with her teeth (pre-planning always came in handy when she turned up to Molly's with near open wine) and took a swig. "Who am I cheering on?"

* * *

The evening had turned to night swiftly, it was near midnight before any of the three had noticed they'd migrated to the dining table, Meena had collected another chair from Molly's room, and as she sat she placed the cards on the table with a heavy hand. Half her bottle of wine had been drained and her hand eye coordination had suffered as a consequence.

Both men sat with a thud, none of them where fully into the realms of drunk but their silly smiles weren't completely the fault of Greg's poorly told jokes, and they certainly weren't a result of the score.

"So... 'Burn'. It's this or snap, and snap is tedious when you have 'Burn' in your repertoire. Rules are simple, or at least easy to learn as you play." Menna rambled as she dealt the cards she had been shuffling throughout the 'excitement' of the football, placing three cards face down, in front of each player, and three cards face up upon those, she then dealt them each a three card hand, placed the stack of cards equidistant from them all and continued to explain the rules. "Aces are high. Twos, sevens, eights and tens are magic and you pick up a card to keep a three card hand until the deck runs out. You play your lowest card if you're going in fresh and then each card you put down has to be higher than the last on the table. If your hand only has lower cards and no magic you have to pick up the cards on the table as your hand, once you've got nothing in your hand you can play the cards facing up in front of you then those facing down, which is really when the chance kicks in, that moment when your last card's a three has brought grown men to tears." Menna took a deep breath before continuing her rampage.

"Magic cards can be played on anything, if you play a two it restarts, so the next player can play their lowest card, a seven means you can chose if the next player has to play a higher or lower card than the seven, eight is invisible and terribly handy, tens burn the stack and the player with the ten starts fresh. Also if you have four of a kind or four of a kind gets played it'll burn the cards on the table. Got it... Good!" The tirade of words had fallen in a flurry from Meena, she obviously knew the game, or her version of it, well, and seeing as both men had only caught a handful of the rules it seemed they would be learning as they played.

As the games progressed so did the confidence of the two novice players, that is until it was knocked back by Meena's eleven game winning streak.

"Oh! Come on, no one can win a game of pure chance that quickly and that often!" Greg practically yelled into the table. Arms crossed and face in his hands.

"You've obviously never played cards with Molls." Meena retorted. "That girl is dynamite, never seen her loose a game of chance, must be all the right she does in the world, she has a fair few people smiling down on her."

* * *

John had retreated to the kitchen to fetch some water and another round of 'anything edible', the conversation from the other room was muffled as he pushed his head into the top cupboard in search of something that resembled food, and was not the mountain of cat food he found on every turn.

God knows he found that cat tolerable, he'd even grown to love the little sod, but lately, cat food, tea, milk and biscuits (all of which had been demolished by the hungry guests) were all he or Molly had the chance to purchase on the late night shop as the made their way home from a tiring shift.

* * *

"Yeah, and don't I know it. I hear only high praises of the great Molly Hooper, whenever I see John." Greg smiled, he'd known Molly for sometime, but it was nice to hear that she was a real person, outside of the lab coat and the cool reality of death.

"And yet, you've only heard mentions of me..." Meena shook her head, as if appalled, but she smiled to show the man opposite her it was only a joke. You had to spend quite an amount of time with Meena to understand her version of sarcastic humor. "It looks as if our Molls has a bit of an admirer in ol' Johnny Boy." Her tone was almost wistful as she remembered the difficultly acquired confession of her friend.

"Yeah, she really does."  _Dammit,_ Greg thought,  _I thought it took more than three bottles of beer until I started blurting mate's secrets. Here's hoping she thinks it's a poorly made joke._ _ **Laugh**_ _._ The DI laughed slightly noncommittally but Meena was having none of it. Oh, she played along, but if she could just grasp a confession from the man himself, a whole lot of awkward subtext could be avoided.

John wandered back in the room, greeted by the defeated looking DI and the Cheshire grin of Meena. He held three colourful glasses of water in his hand and chuckled softly as he placed them on the table. "Oh, Molly would have a fit if she saw my blatant disregard of the coasters. We appear to only have water as serviceable food supplies, unless you're up for trying what Toby's having."

"'We' is it now?" The smile on Meena's face held a distinctly smug quality, John couldn't help thinking her and Sherlock would get on like a house on fire, that or they'd set a house on fire.

"Slip of the tongue Mee. Anyway I say we, when I'm refereeing to you and me, it's a plural term." John was a little flustered; he couldn't help but think he'd overreacted a little to a harmless jibe.

"Bit defensive aren't we Johnny Boy... Nooo, don't tell me you've taken a fancy our Molls? I mean she is quite the catch." Meena had caught John red handed and all three of them knew it. John's face caught up with his hands, a distinct blush covering his cheeks. He'd have to defend this at least a little, if Meena knew, everyone knew, and he wasn't quite sure he could face that rejection yet.

"What?! No... Ummm don't be silly, that could never, she would never..."  _Yes, that should do it, my eloquence was astounding._ It didn't shock John much that his sarcastic inner monologue sounded distinctly of a certain Consulting Detective.

"So I'll take that as a yes then. It's okay, John, you know to fall for someone. Even now, even with everything, and even if she does work in a morgue." Her tone was comforting as she placed her hand over his, Greg not wanting the blame that was rightfully his to land on his shoulders, decided tactically, to remain silent.

"I haven't fallen for anyone... At all... Not even a -fine- yes, okay. But please don't tell her."

"Fine, I won't, but you'll have to. It's only so long I will keep this information secret. You have to tell her." Her smile was soft, but John didn't want to ever face the music of this specific situation, keeping it secret forever was kind of the plan. His face must have mirrored that sentiment as Meena rolled her eyes and looked at him sternly.

"But I'm so much older than she his. And..."

"Nope, no excuses." She shot Greg a glance telling him to back her up.

"Yeah mate, and that's hardly an excuse, what's five years when you're past your 30's."

"That's that settled then."

"Fine. But it's not going to be easy." Those were John's final words on the topic, nothing more he wanted or needed to say, nothing more he wanted or needed to hear.

 _Easier than you think._ Meena thought to herself.  _So much easier._

* * *

The night had moved smoothly from then, and Molly had come back to a slightly disheveled home, a Detective Inspector sound asleep on her sofa, John half in and half out of his own bed, and Meena safely snuggled on 'not Molly's side' of her bed. She'd prepared herself for sleep and wriggled underneath the covers,  _who needed men, when she could always just share a bed with Meena._ Although sound asleep, Meena had felt the dip of the mattress and snuggled to Molly's side. "Soon things will be so much better." She grumbled in her sleep-ridden voice and promptly fell back into her practically comatose sate.

* * *

It was two weeks later that John plucked up the courage.

* * *

It was a regular occasion that Molly and John would treat themselves to 'good week dinner', it had started as takeaways from the local Chinese after one of those weeks filled with good days and happy moments. They wanted to celebrate the happiness they could find in their lives, and a friendly chat and not having to prepare food was the best way they'd found. It had slowly graduated (once the Chinese round the corner could recognise their number, and wouldn't have to ask for an address or an order) to going out to various places near Molly's flat, none upmarket, but all with good enough food and company.

So, John supposed he should have seen Molly's response coming when he blurted out the question that had been sitting in the tip of his tongue for so long.

"Molly, would you like to, umm... Go out to dinner with me, this Saturday?"

"Sure John." He was never sure why she always seemed slightly dejected when he offered 'good week dinner'. "Good week was it?" She glanced up at John. "Although, maybe not? You seem nervous." He was rubbing the back of his neck, and stuttering in a very Molly-like fashion.

"Yeah, I am a little, actually. Because I don't really mean 'good week dinner', even if it was a good week because I saw more of you. I meant more of a - a going on a date type of dinner." It was only then he really looked Molly in the eye, and for the life of him he couldn't read her reaction one bit. So, like all men putting their heart on the line would, he panicked. "But it's fine if you say no, you can ignore all that... I mean I could be misreading everything, and God only knows if I mess up this friendship I may have to actually shoot myself in the leg, or at least I'd get that bloody limp back." His words were rushed and his sentence ended with a sharp intake of breath. Molly was rubbing the soft skin of her wrist, she was nervous,  _why was she nervous?_

"YES! I mean, yes, of course."  _Oh_ "Of course I'll go on a date type of dinner with you. And here was me thinking I was misreading  **this...** " She gestured between the two, waving her hands around, her body constantly trying to find some occupation as she continued. "I was going to ask, ask  **you**  out I mean, but nerves, or that sarcastic voice in the back of my head, or some lame excuse always got the better of me. I thought you'd say no… And I'm rambling, you could have lived with a 'Yes that'd be lovely' I suppose it's more me to ramble."

"I can hardly talk, I used a good few sentences to just say 'will you go to dinner with me?'" They laughed softly, it was comfortable and definite. This was actually happening. _This is actually happening!_

"So, Saturday, at seven? I'll pick you up at your door."

"Perfect." Her smile was as clear in her voice as on her lips, John reciprocated easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all again for your continued support and loveliness.
> 
> You are all made to perfect.


	11. "The Good Doctor"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More as promised :) We've had quite a bit of Meena, so here have some more.

"Hey Molls, how are you holding up?" Meena, Bart's best maternity nurse, strolled casually into the pathology lab that, but three months ago would have had a brooding sociopath curled in the corner examining blood cultures with the lab's most expensive 'for hospital staff's use only' microscope.

"Hi Meena. Okay, just to clarify… although my once upon a time, kitten covered blog, my plaited to the side hair and my distinct lack of adult fashion may allude to the idea that I am nothing more than a teenage girl. And although, yes, I did have a 'crush' on him, and it still feels weirdly empty around here without him; Me and Joh- Me and –  **I** have been holding up pretty damn well for the past couple of months over Sherlock's death and you know that." Although Molly's rambled words seemed affronted, yet her mannerisms toward her best friend, lacked any anger or anguish.

"Oh, I know… I was just hoping you'd slip up, and tell me how John's been, I don't know… holding you up against the kitchen table to kiss you rotten. Or is that a little presumptuous?" At this comment Molly spluttered on the coffee she'd been drinking; she should have known better than to  _a)_  tell Meena that she had feelings for John,  _b)_ consume fluids around Meena, especially when she had that devious glint in her eye and  _c)_   **tell Meena that she had feelings for John.**

"Goodness Molls, I love how I can still catch you off guard," Meena was chuckling to herself, "How is the good doctor?"

"John's fine, absolutely fine. My day's are a little blurred, but I'm pretty sure he has work today."

Meena had known of Molly's feelings toward a certain ex-army Doctor, ever since the moment Molly had 'accidentally' mentioned how adorable he looked in his PJ's when they were watching Doctor Who. Her suspicions only grew when he became a more permanent fixture of their little friendship group; and on the days they'd spend with John, Meena would gain a lot less conversation for both other parties. The two months after she had met John, Meena had managed to grasp a confession from the never-quite-subtle-enough Molly, when teasing her, at an atrocious 60's night.

Since that conversation 3 weeks ago Molly and, as Meena would call him, 'The Good Doctor' had become far closer, much closer, so much closer, in fact, that they were about to venture out on their first real date, this coming Saturday evening. Molly, in want to practice her willpower around her devious and truly persuasive friend, was hiding this nugget of information from Meena; she was really only doing so because the woman who had been attempting to persuade Molly to "jump on 'The Good Doctor'/ask out 'The Good Doctor'/ for God's sake Molly he likes you, just nudge him in the right direction… you're bedroom", did not currently deserve the gossip she was withholding. So, in her best effort to make Meena suffer, just a little, to give as good as she got; she... crumbled almost instantaneously, adorning a childish and exuberantly happy grin, that would give the Cheshire Cat a run for his money.

"Molly Anne Hooper, I have seen that sneakily enthusiastic, 'I'm so happy I could die' face four times in the time I've known you, all but one of those times involving men. First, there was the time Jeremy Tucker asked you out to the hospital charity ball. Second, the day you slept with said Jeremy Tucker, then it disappeared along with him until; third, a certain Mister Sherlock bloody Holmes apologised and kissed you on the cheek, at which point it was worn for over a week, and of course, fourth, the day you got Toby. Now here it is again, and unless you've acquired yourself another cat, the only man in your life currently is a Mister John. Hamish. Watson… SPILL."

It was a testament to their friendship that, although Molly was loathed to 'spill' to most people, this was Meena and so she caved in, like she always would. Then again, she simply couldn't care less, because Meena would listen and being secretly happy is nothing compared to sharing your joy with at least someone other than the person putting the smile upon your face.

By this point the excitement behind her news had taken control of Molly and she was visibly buzzing with adrenaline, no longer able to hold onto her words, they fell from her lips like a stream of consciousness, breathing and other verbal necessities ignored. "He asked me out, me of all people, ME! I suppose that means you were right, he does like me; but thankfully I didn't have to do any of the asking or the jumping that your advice would have lead me to believe. We're going out this Saturday, and I'm going to need a new dress, but I don't care because I finally get to indulgently look at him without it being weird or inconspicuous, and we can hold hands across the table and…"

"Snog him, until neither of you can breath, and finally make sure that your spare room, is once again spare." This of course was not the natural progression of thought in Molly's head; she was thinking more moonlit walks and cuddling on the sofa watching 'Back to the Future'.  _Trust Meena._

"Mee," Molly's voice mirrored her eye roll, "that's just, no, we're going to take things slowly, neither of us are the type to just dive into something as big as this; especially not just from a sudden influx of emotion."

"Yes, but Molly dearest, you seem to forget that for the past 2 months you and 'The Good Doctor' have been taking things slowly, even if you weren't quite aware of it yet. Also 'sudden influx' my arse, those emotions have been sitting and festering, like the body parts Sherlock would forget to return, for those months… and that's on both sides, I should know John told me -"

Meena's hands violently clapped over her parted lips, in an overly dramatic, seen only on TV, gasp, trying her hardest to capture and return the words she had so carelessly let fall from her mouth, dropping like dusty red bricks onto Molly's delicate mind.

"He, umm, he said what now?" Molly's questioning glance towards her companion, was full of the confusion her mind was battling against.

"Oh, bugger…" Meena exhaled, accepting her fate she continued, "Okay, so Greg may have mentioned that when they were having a few pints, you seemed to pop up in conversation quite an amount. Of course, I said something very Meena of me, like 'Nooo, don't tell me you've taken a fancy our Molls? I mean she is quite the catch.' And he totally did a you and spluttered and denied and finally crumbled, telling me how he'd liked you, and quite a bit more than a friendly sort of like, but he didn't want you to know because of all the Sherlock stuff and him being old or something…" pausing Meena tried to gauge Molly's reaction and was unsurprised to be faced with a goldfish impression, mixed with a stern 'you-could-have-told-me' glare. It was comical, but she knew not to laugh.

"C'mon Molls, you should be proud of me, I kept one hell of a secret for a friend without blurting it out until said friend no longer needed me to keep hold of it." She added with a falsely innocent smile.

Although she huffed a little, Molly couldn't stay mad at the cheeky nurse for much longer,  _I suppose she was technically being a good friend to John and it is all out in the open now._

"Yes!" Menna exclaimed, "I know that look, that's your other famous look, the I'm-so-angry-well-not-incredibly-so-but-I'll-forgi ve-you-even-though-based-on-the-facts-I-shouldn't- really look. I love that look, that's my favorite look... ever." Then unable to hold in the rampage of questions about Molly's up and coming love life a tirade flew from her.

"So… where's he taking you? What are you going to wear? Will you really be wearing it for very long? Oh, will you be wearing it at all? Will he finally be migrating to your room? Don't give me that stare; will you at least kiss him? If not for anything else than to shut me up and stop me pestering you on the matter. Are you going to confess your undying love for him? Is he? Can I be your maid of honor? Although I will not wear any variation of a pastel colour or floral print!"

Molly's mild nature made it so that she could not glare at many people in the world, but the glare she was giving Meena could have killed, or at least shattered glass from 100ft. "Fine, fine, you're giving me the I'm-loosing-all-thoughts-of-friendship-and-forgive ness look, have you ever noticed that you have many 'looks' Molly Hooper? I'll quit my jabbering; but for one final question, not a joke, look at me, I'm serious Meena now… Molly, is he your soppy Rom-Com cliché 'the one'?"

The colour of Molly's cheeks blossomed into a bright scarlet only seen in moments of 'girl talk' with the rather crude Meena. The answer to Meena's question lay of the tip of Molly's tongue, ready, but held back by her sealed lips. A bright, glaring, luminescent 'YES!' spilled across her vision, there was no need to think about it, but if she said yes, if she even murmured or thought 'yes' for more than one second it would jinx it. So, she carefully formulated her response, even though Meena was more than fully aware of the 'Yes!' that obscured Molly's vision.

"I like him, I really,  **really** , do, but we've not even had one date yet Mee, and it could end horribly…" Molly's interest now lay solely in the limp lettuce of her sandwich, looking Meena in the eye had the tendency to cause her heart to rule her head, and those moments always ended with unnecessary confessions or unfortunately worded comments.

"Whatever you say Molls, it's not as if you already know, have lived with, and accept each other's flaws, and you've practically been in a relationship for long enough… No, no,  **no**! We have to wait 'til after the first date, and many sleepless nights in the near future…"

Molly could only manage to give Meena a glimpse of 'the look' before the voice of the brash maternity nurse crashed through her resentful thoughts.

"Oh, go on Molls, you will, at least, tell me all the gory details, wont you?"

Molly knew not to dignify that with an answer, she dignified it with a 700-page pathology textbook flung in Meena's general direction, thankfully for Meena, Molly's aim always had been atrocious. But, if looks or books could kill, a fresh body would be rolled into the morgue and upon Molly's list it would read 'Meena Shawnsy – COD Unknown'.


	12. Her Left Shoelace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Finally" I hear a least one of you scream. And yes. this is the date (and a double chapter post because I'm a week late). I love you all :)

Saturday couldn't come sooner for either Doctor, even the days they would see each other they saved their better conversation, though those moments always seemed fleeting.

The day had come after, what felt like, years. It was Molly's first day fully off, not on call,  _not a chance_ , in months, so she put it to good use. For Molly the day was filled with shopping, and a great variety of Meena's opinions on every single outfit she deigned suitable.  _Meena had asked why Molly couldn't just wear her 'date dress', the little black number that would work on any hot-blooded man (or woman for that matter), but she had tried and the fabric that clung to her skin felt like the suffocating bad memories, of a never forgotten Christmas, wrapped around her body._  She didn't want the extremes, nothing that showed off anything and everything it could, without her being called into the station under 'public indecency' charges, and nothing that would have John wondering why the woman he asked out seemed to have disappeared under a pile of wool and gaudily patterned cloth.

* * *

John on the other hand was at home... Panicking over what to wear. Rifling through what was considered smart attire John Watson had difficulty in avoiding a variety of bulky jumpers or his army uniform. Thankfully he had few clothes, so he spotted the right thing soon enough.

* * *

Just to clarify, Molly Anne Hooper, spent 6 hours 43 minutes and 27 seconds falling in and out of the high street shops that lay within her price range, scouring far to many places with far too few things, for the perfect outfit. Dresses soon became out of the question, each new modern style held an abundance of reasons Meena or Molly detested the fit, all within 2 hours of searching, she had looked rakishly thin and flat, lumpy or bumpy, but certainly unappealing, too tall, too short, pale and red, blotchy, ill and with increasing regularity boob-less (every woman may strive for an air of mystery, but that is certainly not the 'air' she wanted called into question). When the pair of woman had decided against dresses, the search became complicated and long, Meena had taken to simultaneously trying on the most grotesque of clothes just to get through the tedium of another uncomfortably plush chair outside a changing room.

When Molly had tried  **it**  on, the material flowing softly against her skin, and the texture alone had her sold. Glancing to the mirror the woman facing her was the woman she wanted to be, her... with just a hint of jaw dropping gorgeousness, that John was yet to see.

"This is it Mee! 110% it! And if you don't like it I will have to calmly tell you to bugger off!" Molly opened the tackily velvet curtain to show her friend. The fact that Meena was suddenly struck speechless gave her all the confidence in the world.

The style and elegance sat perfectly between PJ days with her best friend John Watson and something a 20-year-old Meena would have worn to a club in the hope of catching many a man's eye.

* * *

For further clarification it had taken John Hamish Watson had taken 6 hours 48 minutes and 28 seconds, and endless cups of tea (he staved off the biscuits, even if he had gotten the taste for gingernuts, as a full stomach to a dinner date was never welcome), making the final decision over his attire for the evening. It had only taken that long, in fact, as after deciding  _once and for all_  he would wear his grey tailored suit, with the deep navy lining, marbled blue buttons and navy stitching, he had revoked and returned to the decision and the several, not quite right, white shirts that he had tried on, too many times to count.  _When did I become such a woman?_

The tipping of the scales when it came to John's suit was the memory it evoked, the day he had bought it in an upmarket high street chain, with Molly. How she had persuaded him to go shopping in the first place was beyond him, he had never ventured beyond the call of duty when it came to browsing windows and delving into the treasures of thrift shops or the charming monotony of the high street brands; even if John and his mother had been brick-a-brack specialists before she had passed away, he and his sister had even carried on the boot sale traditions of the family, that had crumbled under the corrosive alcohol the slowly seeped through her veins, so he was more than surprised at his own presence.

Molly had dragged him into yet another shop, but it seemed different, no longer surrounded by the pastels of the season in flowing skirts and unconventional blouses, he was faced with a rather extensive line of male attire.

"C'mon you've shopped enough with me searching through bargain bins for the awful clothes I wear, you need a date suite. Everyman needs a date suite, if you're going to impress the women of this day and age." She coughed slightly, Molly had clearly believed her own words to an extent, but they were recycled. "Or so Meena says."

They had scanned the rails, and John had found it strangely invigorating, although he would not admit that to the grinning woman opposite him. He would never regret the childishness that took over them as they played a twenty minute game of hide and seek, amongst the rails, it was how Molly had stumbled upon the reasonably priced, clean cut, suit she persuaded him to try on and just the look in her eyes as he walked out of the curtained area had him going to buy it. He had taken a moment of self pity, as Molly had taken a flash of jealousy, when the thought that it wouldn't be the two of them that would utilise the 'date suit' together, but that was taken over by flustered embarrassment and stolen smiles when the cashier asked if "the happy couple" where in need of assistance for a complimenting dress in the adjoining shop.

So, that was it, John was now dressed, pacing and far from ready... This called for more tea.

* * *

Molly had come home outfit in one shopping bag, along with some other bits and bobs Meena had persuaded would improve her day to day work wardrobe, something she had been trying to persuade Molly to do for years, and now with the promise of a John Watson date was slowly achieving.

She missed John in the rush to her room, and closed her door with a soft thud.

* * *

Both John and Molly had gone to great lengths to escape what they suppose was the looming friend zone, neither really believed in such a thing, a relationship was built and it flourished in whatever way the two participants saw fit, but they both felt a need to make an extra effort, they may accept each other at their lowest, but their highest was just now to be seen in full swing.

Neither would tell the other the time they had spent, especially over the contemplation of clothes; but if the lengths they went to lead to fireworks when they kissed, smooth songs floating through their mind at the thought of one another, the others smell clinging more keenly to their clothes, to their skin, they would happily oblige in the ritual hours 'getting ready' had entailed.

* * *

John was pacing slightly, this was big, he nearly questioned his decision entirely. Was it worth loosing his closest friend?

 _Logically,_  John thought,  _I'm already living with the girl, if there were any of her habits that would annoy me, any dream of hers I did not share in or support, any moment that I was willing to not have her share again, I wouldn't have asked her out in the first place, if she didn't feel the same, she wouldn't have said yes... and I wouldn't be standing pacing in front of a mirror questioning whether I am worth a moment of her precious time._

 _For Christ sake man, it's not like you asked her to marry you, it's just a date, bloody pull yourself together. If Sherlock could see me now. Oh he'd probably say something condescendingly stupid about how "her left shoelace or the small dot of ink on her right thumb indicates that everything will be fine, and your feelings for her are mutual, and please don't cock this up, both you and Molly are so irritable and uncooperative when you're 'heartbroken'."_  He shook his head at the thought letting soft chuckles reverberate his being, happy to think of the man,  _that was new and not wholly unwelcome._

* * *

Butterflies, cliché and horrid butterflies were swirling around Molly's stomach, it felt like bubbles popping, or the monsters that scared her as a child stomping and grumbling in her chest cavity. Quite unpleasant, yet not unwelcome. Molly heard a gentle giggle through the thin walls, John, considering what a feminine laugh he could have when caught of guard, Molly had to stifle her own giggles that fought their way up against the butterflies and bubbles and settled with the monsters. She would ignore how her stomach flipped, trying to control the nerves.

Unbeknownst to the late Sherlock Holmes, Molly was not intimidated easily, she was strong and in her 5 year course and 2 year residency at a university hospital, she was well known as the go to for help and security, she was also the person you wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of, too fuelled by her intellect and sense of what was right, she could easily ignore the superiority system and put anyone I their place. She could stand up to anyone, so she would stand up to her nerves today.  _Sherlock would expect me to be nervous; I wonder what Sherlock would say about this whole situation? Probably something pretentious, he'd claimed to have already known that we both liked each other far in advance of us knowing, he could probably tell from a smudge of something on my right thumb or my left shoelace._  Molly giggled, opening the far door of her wardrobe to reveal a full-length mirror, reflecting back at her was the 'full package', she was now wearing the complete outfit, matched with shoes and accessories, and had done her make-up and hair, if it were not for the generally low opinion she held for herself (as we all do) Molly would have thought she looked beautiful, but instead she pulled her eyes slowly from the floor to rest on her own features staring back. "That'll do." She whispered with a cheeky smile.

Molly's make up was simple, a little more than she wore to work, making the effort to glide on her more expensive liquid eyeliner and adding a deeper colour to her lips (not a bright red, but a deep plumb tone), her hair was loose falling in simple waves over one shoulder, by the grace of God she did not have to manufacturer the curls with the deadly tongs that lay on her vanity table. She had decided against lavish jewelry, but wore deep blue pearl(effect) studs and a simple silver chain with a matching blue 'pearl' pendant. Her legs were clad with tight fitted black jeans, with a high waist and gorgeous military style buttons, the jeans rumpled at her ankles slightly, but hugged all the right places, doing the magic thing that the right pair of jeans would do. Molly's shoes were not new, they gave her a little extra height, and a lot extra confidence, black with a neat ribbon just below the ankle, and a wedge over a conventional heel (she had always valued stability). Her blouse was looser than the figure hugging bottoms, a deep blue silk like fabric that flowed over her skin and complimented her pale complexion the sleeves had a neat cuff that was buttoned by silver studs, and the neckline swooped to show her décolletage a simple knot of the same fabric laying over the top button, and the loose but fitting fabric tucked nicely into the tops of her jeans. She wasn't yet wearing her fitted black jacket, it was far too warm in the flat, and even if it wasn't, the impressive amounts of worry she was doing could easily have worked up a sweat.

* * *

Ready, and just in time.

* * *

It was two minutes to eight when Doctor John Watson braced himself outside his date's door. Doctor Molly Hooper just the other side, close, waiting, and with a mixture of nerves, excitement, hope, love and she'll admit it a dash of lust causing her mind to whir, and a small amount of jumping to ensue. John on the other hand was trying to hastily shake away the same cocktail of emotion and hormones.

He was currently part of the living embodiment of a Rom Com, boy meets girl, boy moves in with girl after his only true friends untimely demise, boy becomes best friends with girl, boy arses around not realising he has stronger feelings for the girl no matter how clear they are, boy asks girl out, girl says yes.  _Okay, so maybe not your conventional Rom Com._

At eight in the dot, and with the same confidence of a 10 year old boy who's in trouble with the principle has, John knocked on Molly's door. She had already had her hand on the door knob in anticipation, so the door opened before his knock could truly finish, and John was confronted by the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. He would have fainted, lost his jaw two floors down, or even kissed that devilishly delicate mouth of the woman in front of him, if her were not repeating ' _don't ruin this, don't you dare ruin this, I mean look at her, if you ruin this, there will never be another her,_ _ **don't ruin this!**_ _'_  over and over in his head. They accepted the comfortable silence that lay between them for a little longer, it gave them a chance to simply appreciate the person facing them, and thankful that from the look in each other's eyes there was approval there.

Molly was certainly appreciative of a chance to drink in the sight that faced her, she rarely got a chance to indulge, not the type to sneak glances (more for her poor sneaking ability than anything), the only real chance she had had before this moment was in the shop the day he bought the suit that was now wrapped around his body in just the right way. Past the thick jumpers and poorly fitting clothes, John Watson was a sight to behold, and so she did. A clean cut suit, echoing the style of one Sherlock Holmes, but fighting against the dark that covered him, with a simple grey, and she was pretty sure she had never witnessed Sherlock in a tie, so the navy one the sat in an impeccable Windsor knot, snug against his top button, made him her John and not just a faint memory. Soon enough, the pair were just gazing, there was no better word for it gazing described it sickeningly perfectly, into each other's eyes. The chocolate of Molly's balancing with the pale blue of the sandy blonde John.

Molly glanced down, catching the shine of his shoes in the fluid motion.  _He shined his shoes... For me!_


	13. Wow

A word finally escaped John's already parted lips.

"Wow." He breathed, if the flat hadn't been held in a crisp silence Molly would have missed that simple word that snapped her back to reality, a little flustered at the compliment. Molly borrowed some of the bolstered cheek commonly found in Meena's tone not usually her own, or at least she tried. "Wow yourself, Doctor Watson."

She spun 360 degrees,  _that's what they do in films, right?_  "Not too much for Angelo's is it? I thought you deserved the best I could do."

A rabbit in headlights. That was certainly an accurate description of John, his mouth was dry, palms clammy, and he was pretty convinced that he had reverted back to the awkward spotty teenager he had once been, swapping him for 'Three Continents Watson' and again to the man he was proud to be today was difficult enough, he really,  **really** , didn't want to go through that again. "Ummm... Wow."  _Dammit, if that the only coherent thing I can say, I'll never forgive myself. Or those jeans... I will never forgive those jeans._  His eyes veered to the soft curve of Molly's backside, he was a man after all.

A soft cough matched by a equally soft smile from the woman in question brought them both back to the room, fully aware, of the time, or the circumstances, the people, everything. Painfully aware of how wonderfully brilliant this moment was.

John regained himself from his stupor. "You look stunning, Molls. I mean you look amazing in PJs, but wow. I think I'm going to have to work out why you said yes, to me, of all people. I may also need to just stare a you just a little longer."

"I could say the same."

"Anyway, how did you know we were going to Angelo's?"

Molly giggled. "I see and I observe John Watson. It's been your date restaurant since I've met you, what was it you said 'it balances subtle beauty, simple and tasty food, and a good price through Sherlock's influence', even if the occasional date gets asked if she's your sister."

"Observation, Molly Hooper a woman after my own heart, although I would like to just clarify that I am straight, and any woman or Sherlock for that matter would not,  **could not,** hold a candle to you."

"You don't have to sweet talk me, I'm already going on a date with you." She smiled.

With the conclusion that they easily found each other, for lack of a better word, 'wow-able', John turned his eyes to the clock, it was only ten past, but the table was booked for half past, and it was always best to leave sooner rather than later. "Care to join me then?" John extended his hand to her, clasped it as they moved to the door, walked down the outdoor steps and out onto the street. The weather and short walk it was from Molly's apartment to Angelo's allowed them the comfort of a short walk in each others presence, skin still numbly buzzing from the few nerves that remained, but hands connected and an upward curve to their lips mirrored.

* * *

As they approached the large windows that fronted Angelo's, John, trying his darnedest to be a gentleman, trying his darnedest to stop shaking (even if unnoticeably), opened the door and let Molly enter the restaurant first. Once he had joined her inside, his eyes adjusted to the dim glow that is only ever bestowed on the evening restaurant crowd. John wasn't shocked by their warm welcome, and thankfully because of the stories she had heard, from John and even Sherlock on one occasion when he was terribly bored; Molly was also not astounded by the reception the received.

"Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson!" A strong Italian called from behind the bar. A broad man, with a thick beard and white half-apron, bounded up to the pair, glancing over to John's present company giving her an appraising look, turning to John and raising an eyebrow and giving a appreciative nod. It was flattering really, and Molly took it in her stride, extending her hand to the restaurant owner.

"You must be Angelo, I've heard so much about this place from John and Sherlock."

Her mention of Sherlock didn't somber the mood as it would have done some months ago, instead it gained a pushed away hand and a breath eliminating hug for the both of them. Slapping them on their shoulders as he moved away Angelo spoke. "Oh. That boy. Such a shame, but he was never a fraud. Saved me from life in your retched English prisons." The laughed peacefully as Angelo lead the couple to a secluded candle lit table, away from the other diners, and clearly Angelo's doing. Not that they didn't appreciate it, being detached from the rest if the world, a little romance, never hurt anyone.

* * *

Both Molly and John had breathed sighs of relief throughout the evening, letting go of air they were unaware they were holding. From the moment they sat conversation was easy and comfortable; they could talk about work, of which Molly was thankful.

Every other first date in which Molly had divulged her profession had ended abruptly and in much the same way, with a sickened look, the 'You cut up dead people?' whisper and a 'check please!' shouted to the waiter, she rarely got to desert. John's background in the medical profession, and that they had technically met in the morgue itself, meant she was not waiting for him to blot out the door, he engaged in conversation, asked questions and listened with rapt attention, he even reached across the table and reassuringly gripped her hand as she talked about the body of a young boy that had been brought in just the day before, the thought of which she had been trying to push from her mind, but with the relief and comfort of John's presence she let the thoughts flow.

* * *

John had found himself in a constant state of contentment, the dinner was running smoothly, and it felt like a date, a real date. It was a little shocking, really, he'd been a little convinced it would feel just like any other Saturday night dinner, but it was far from it. She wasn't grossed out or disappointed by his repetitive stories of clinic life, and soon the conversation turned new and interesting, they find out things they had not yet told each other, and it was strange and truly lovely.

The enchantment that surrounded them was only marginally broken as John went slightly off topic, a question that had been niggling at his mind, but it was always a bad time to ask it (he ignored that this would be the worst.)

"What did you see in him? Sorry, uh, I mean, I know that he really missed something, looking past you and your love all those years. But what does someone so amazing, see in someone that only tells you the opposite?"

Molly was only slightly caught off guard, it was always a matter of time before Sherlock would pop up in conversation, they hadn't talked about him for at least a week, it was all in due course. Most men, she realised, wouldn't delve into such a complex topic on the first date, then again, this wasn't much like any first date, and John wasn't most men.

Her answer did shock him somewhat.

"I didn't love him, not really, not romantically. It was a silly crush, every woman is still an awkward teenage girl with awkward teenage crushes at heart. Hero worship they tend to call it, I liked the  **idea**  of him. He never really intimidated me, I was never really infatuated, even if my stuttering tried to tell a different story. I suppose like so many women, you see a striking man, handsome and aloof, mysterious and with no emotional outlet and you think you can change him, be the one who release the humanity you're convinced is there. Turns out that was your job anyway. He was a friend, no matter how much he wanted not to be." There she ended with a wine fuelled giggle, shocked that she could have pulled such a coherent response together, she wasn't drunk, not by any means, but even sober her thoughts never seemed to align so cohesively.

* * *

Again the evening continued to move smoothly, Molly talked about her love of writing, and John couldn't help but be amazed. He had enjoyed writing his blog, more so than he would have ever admitted to his therapist, but to tell the story, recreate the adventure, was a buzz in of itself. Molly's writing was different though, she still wrote of adventure, she'd even based it upon stories she'd overheard from himself, Greg or Mike on the more exciting days 'down in the dungeons of St. Bart's', but they were children's fiction.

"They're not very good, but I've read them when babysitting from time to time, and the kids liked them. I'm a bit more painfully honest with most of the kids, but they thrive on that."

"We'll, aren't you full of hidden talent." John commented.

"You haven't read them!" They both fell about laughing heartily, as she took the last bite of her rich chocolate dessert. The meal had passed so quickly, it felt like minutes since they had sat down. In reality, as the two turned simultaneously and almost comically to stare at the clock, after realising the pleasant silence around them was due to the emptiness of the restaurant, it was nearing midnight.

"Damn. When did it get so late? When did everyone else leave?" John asked.

"I'm not too sure." Molly glanced over at Angelo, snoozing behind the bar, hands sitting comfortably on his chest and a soft snoring rumbled from his lips. "We should probably get going. I should probably wake him."

Molly stood, gathering her things and slipping on her jacket. Their hands untangled, and it wasn't until now she noticed they had been connected this whole time. She walked over to Angelo and gently shook him awake, thanking him for his perfect hospitality and letting him hug her one final time. John had slipped on his ageing coat over his well cut jacket leaving a more than healthy tip on the table, he walked over to Molly, grasped her wrist and near pulled her through the restaurant door, the little bell chiming to signify their departure. The sign in the window had been turned to 'Closed' for quite some time.

Slipping his hand into hers John decided he wasn't ready for this date to end, practically planning the next one in his head as they shared a the walk back to  _Molly's_ ,  _his,_ their apartment. That was the strangest thing about it, coming home from a first date, hand in hand, and then simply walking into your own shared home. No awkward doorstep chats, no wondering if she'll ask him if in for coffee,  _no goodnight kiss?_

As they entered the door, Molly kicked of her heels, ( _screw it_ ,  _I'll_   _put them away in the morning)_  and hung up her jacket. John almost mirrored her actions as he placed his jacket over a dining room chair and left his shoes next to the door, ( _they can wait)._

Was this it then? It was late, but tomorrow was Sunday, no work and enough time to catch up on the sleep they may miss now. John wanted to talk to Molly more, pick her brain, and share her thoughts. Molly wanted much the same, though, if she were honest she could quite happily just sit and stare at him for another few hours. And if John were honest he wanted much the same.

Molly started to walk over to the kitchen, in need of water. But John couldn't miss his chance, the longer they left it, the more trepidation it would take. It was like ripping off a plaster, fast and painless, although hopefully  **far**  more enjoyable.

Before she could walk past him John had grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close to him. Reflexively, and she would say for the purposes of balance even if it were the overwhelming curiosity, Molly's hands slid to the back of his neck, playing with the short flicks of hair there that were always so soft. Someone pulled someone in further, there breath was mingling and hearts racing and then they were kissing slowly and almost innocently. Eyes closed and every sense heightened, all the clichés were coming true, Molly could see fireworks in her closed vision, John's legs had turned to jelly, and both got lost in one another. When they parted it was all too soon. Their smiles were almost goofy, and Molly truly understood how he'd charmed so many women to achieve his nickname (no matter how much he'd denied it as barrack banter).

A word finally escaped Molly's already parted lips.

"Wow." She breathed.


	14. Jesus Christ Those Jeans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the amount of John and Molly's relationships that revolves around 'strange' foods and wearing pajamas, it's a very me thing to do. They say write about what you know and I wear pj's almost more than clothes whilst I eat weird combinations of food. - Not the longest chapter, a bit of fluff to tide the story over while I think of some plot :P

They had talked into the early hours of the morning, neither could tell you what about, but it had kept their attention. They had sat cross-legged on the living room rug, bare feet curling into to soft fabric and legs occasionally bumping into one another. Molly remembered laughing, heartily, so much so she had fallen backward, her back hitting the floor with a soft thump and prompting more giggles; John remembered the shine of her eyes and her broad smile as she had toppled, he had grasped for her hand, unsuccessfully, but as she continued her laughter he noticed the soft flow of her hair as it splayed out across the floor, and couldn't help but imagine such an image in a more indecent situation. He had blushed, almost scarlet, and it would have been an embarrassment were he sharing the company of anybody else.

Molly was well aware that some of her rapt attention in the early hours had been focused not on John's words, but the lips they fell from, she had spent a good hour with her focus on the contours of his face, the laughter lines that had faded in lieu of those associated with worry. She could see he was still clearly tired, without concealer it was near impossible to hide the faint purple the coloured just below his eyes, but she was thankful that there was something of a relief, a happiness that was again beginning to flood his features, reducing the furrow of his brow, as the lines that were beginning to reemerge on his handsome face reflected the bubbling she felt inside at his glance. His eyes were so soft, and she was sure that she was lost in the blue sparkle long enough that she lost all remnants of the conversation.

John had been talking, he was sure of it, he felt the tug in his lips as his mouth had moved and formulated words. Funny words apparently, he realised as Molly had laughed. But he was none the wiser for what was spoken, far too focused on the soft curves of everything Molly, of the bod of her head as she agreed with his sentiment, her hair or the deep chocolate of her eyes. Or those bloody jeans.  _Jesus Christ those jeans._

It was around 4 in the morning when Molly's heavy lidded eyes began to close for longer and longer with each blink, John himself was taking elongated blinks and it was decided it was probably time for sleep.

John rose from his position on the floor pins and needles tingling at his toes as he wiggled them. Molly on the other hand, had a fully dead leg, and was shaking it vigorously to reintroduce a steady blood circulation; she looked up at John, a sweet smile on her face as if to excuse the rather clumsy action, lifting her hands for him to help her up. As he did so, hoisting her up and pulling her close to him, soft chucking was heard from both sides, "you already knew about the crazy, Doctor Watson, no way out now."

"Good." He said as he pulled her into a searing kiss. It was passionate and all to fast, but if he were honest, John was dead on his feet and he could feel Molly was too, too tired to carry on, resting their foreheads together they breathed each others air and waited until they had no other choice but to part.

They had gone to their separate beds that night, readying themselves into comfortable pajamas for the sleeping into the day that lay ahead. Two souls who had not seen extended happiness, feel asleep with full-fledged smiles upon their faces and the most wicked of thoughts running through their heads.

* * *

"Morning."

"Oh. Hello." Molly smiled nervously as she continued to layer the banana slices into the soft brown bread, sprinkling a little sugar on before closing the sandwich. "Though it's more afternoon," she said as she pointed to the wall clock, showing the time to be nearing three o'clock, "brunch?" She swiveled on her heel displaying the odd sandwich, a coy smile spread across her lips when she saw John Watson, clad in pajamas, that were rumpled yet clean, his hair stuck up at odd ends and there was a roughness to the stubble on his skin, in a bout of confidence she leaned in and kissed the toothpaste off the corner his mouth. Gliding past him and setting her plate down on the table, and air of bliss filled the room.

John look simply baffled, not only had he slept through half of the day, a quiet luxury, but he was receiving sweet kisses, and being offered brunch by the sweetest of lips. Then again he was probably more confused by the idea of a banana sandwich. "Of all things to put in a sandwich. Bananas. Molls, really?"

Molly could only giggle as she bit into the soft fruit and crunchy sugar. "Don't knock it until you've tried it."

John hummed and shrugged his shoulders, "mmmkay." He grabbed the other half of her sandwich taking an almighty bite from the centre.

"You know that look on your face is indistinguishable, if you're going to steal my sandwiches at least enjoy them."

"S'good." He mumbled around another piece of banana. "I'm going to have to remember to never question your judgment again."

"You, mister. Should never have questioned it in the first place."

"Well, you did agree to go out with me, I had to question it a little."

"I can see your point." She said jokingly, as John's jaw dropped slightly. "Oi." He poked Molly gently in the side, eliciting a giggle.

* * *

It had been three busy work days later, and the pair were curled up on the sofa eating leftover pasta, laughing at those hospital dramas, riddled with inaccuracies and glamourising a gruesome reality. "There has never been a morgue attendant that happy. Ever. And I should know I used to be one of them!"

John chuckled at her statement, but did not answer. A question of his own was formulating, surely it would be easier to ask the second time round.

"Molls? Go out with me again?" Molly turned to him, just now realising his arm was draped over her shoulders, the whole time.

"Of course, where are you taking me?"

"My secret."


	15. Visiting an Old Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this is 6 weeks late. Sorry. But I maintain my promises and have written 6 chapters for the 6 weeks I neglected you. (Bloody writer's block). They'll be uploaded over the week, because some are yet to be typed. I love you all, enjoy :)
> 
> (This one's a little sad, sorry loves.)

"Hi – uh – Hello." John's voice was a little weak, caught in the wind that was whistling past, but there was a soft smile on his face even if a sadness lay behind his eyes.

"Bit useless, huh, I mean you can't answer me, bit - illogical. You'd never stand for this, but you've got no choice now. It's just aw-awful, terrible," practically shouting his last word through gritted teeth "that it took this, to finally get you to listen." John gestured towards the cold marble stone in front of him, engraved in harsh gold lettering, and a constant reminder of his best friend's demise.

It took some steady breaths, the methods Molly had taught him to recollect himself, and although it seemed unexpected, uncommon, he continued talking,  _sharing_  with Sherlock Holmes.

"I know I haven't visited for a while, it's been a strange couple of weeks. I told you I was living with Molly the last time I was here, that it was a little strange but comforting… you almost missed that, how strong she was. But she told me what you said to her, the night before… it. You always missed something." He allowed himself a hollow laugh.

"Well, I was a bit like that, blind to what was in front of me. And I know you don't- **didn't**  – believe in it but I – I'm falling in love with her, and I had been for a while without realising it.

"I – ah – I asked her out, we went to Angelos, and I would never admit this to anyone else but for days before I was so scared I was just a replacement for you, because the way she looked at me reminded me of something I'd seen in her eyes before, and I just couldn't shake it off. But thankfully I was so wrong, and she told me as much. You already knew that though, didn't you? That she wasn't really ever in love with you.

"Anyway, I kissed her, or she kissed me, and it was like we fitted together perfectly. And I'm sure you'd have told me to shut up by now, but that's your own. Damn. Fault." He took pause between each word, a tear falling down his cheek over the soft wrinkles that were reforming around his mouth from laughter and smiling, and Molly.

"She's perfect and we're going out again. A second date with the beautiful woman I live with, and I thought you should know." John took another deep breath, he was well aware that he'd been talking for some time, but this eerie place was hardly made for conversation, and Molly was at work so she wouldn't be worried by his prolonged absence. He wasn't quite sure why he felt the need to tell Sherlock, but it's what best friends did, and Molly was far from the other girlfriends he'd had.  _Wait, is she my girlfriend now?_

"I'm going to take her to the place you showed me, well, more like dragged me through, on the pursuit of that burley car thief with the information on the Keyes case. I remember thinking it was beautiful, the perfect place for a date, and you told me to never take someone there unless they were worthy of you remembering their name, unless I thought they were something far more special. I was so shocked, because you sounded sentimental, and I stood there agape for a good twenty minutes until you literally waved me off…. She's worth name remembering, she's worth that place and seven million others like it."

John's smile was soppy, like he was lost in thought of her, and he couldn't quite escape, he didn't want to escape.

"I suppose I wanted your blessing, but I don't need that at all. If anything I should be standing in front of another stone, a Hooper name across it 'Father, Husband, kind of heart, and worth a longer life.' That's what it says on his, Molls told me. I need his blessing more than anything, because she deserves better than me, even if she doesn't realise it yet." And then he sighed, that short sharp exhale. Pushing air through his nose, through a tight smile as you do when nervous, or caught in a fond memory.

"But for now, I'm falling in love with that shy woman who used to buzz around you at St Bart's, and if she thinks I'm worth her time and attention, then who am I to tell her otherwise?"

Silence enveloped John, but he felt comfortable falling into the presence of a lost friend, he didn't have to feel guilt for not being sad, so he stood and glanced over the gold engraving, wrapped up in warm memories of the late detective and smiling at the times they'd had.

* * *

It was getting late, not that John had to look at his watch for that, the setting sun was plenty enough warning that he should be getting home, even if Molly would still be at work until the early hours. He had promised Greg a pint or two, and he was well aware that it was going to be Greg's excuse to talk about the trials and tribulations of pursuing and wooing the lovely Sally Donavan. John didn't mind though, as long as he could swing the conversation back to football, or telly, or Molly.

"I'd better be off mate."

He didn't get too far, before he was turning back around, walking the few steps back to his original position and placing his hand upon the marble headstone.

"You were my best friend Sherlock Holmes, you still are." He whispered.

"It was you who helped me escape the horrors of war, with the thrill of the chase. You stopped me needing this the first time round," John held up his NHS issues, grey and uncomfortable mix of plastic and metal, walking stick, "But you caused it the second time, Molly got me through that, and even though it was all her, I want to thank you. For her. For letting me find her, and see her for what she really is. You're a good friend Sherlock Holmes, and I hope you that's something you didn't miss, but if you did, have this to remember."

John placed down the NHS atrocity, leaning it against the gravestone, Sherlock wouldn't want flowers, he'd have turned up his nose. But the overflowing sentiment behind John's stick would have to do, even if he would have found it more detestable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much love to you all.


	16. Warm Wine and Limp Salad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second of today's updates, I'd say I'm treating you, but it's long over due.

"So, where are you taking me?" Molly said as she cuddled into John's side, she'd dressed up a little, but no more than wearing a summer day dress, that she'd always been comfortable in. John wasn't suited and booted, but he'd ironed his trousers and was wearing a crisp clean white shirt rather than the fluffy jumpers of winter. An quite effort had been made.

They were nearing their destination as John spoke, "Well you don't get to know the sneakiest man in Britain without learning a few shortcuts, and finding a few secret gardens."

"That's so sweet, you and Sherlock used to go on secret garden getaways." She chuckled.

"Hey, are you trying to imply something, Doctor Hooper?"

They were walking simply hand in hand by now, a loose grip as their fingers brushed palms. The pavement was a little uneven, but then again when wasn't it, and of course it was bustling with the busy lunch crowd in fitted suits and a-line skirts, but that was the joy of the mid-week weekend that John and Molly shared once a month, the silence that would fill the streets in a matter of minutes was inevitable and calming. The sunlight played across the shine in Molly's loose hair, but there were fluffy clouds up ahead that were classic of a British summer, and Molly smiled.

"Nothing at all." She giggled, her laugh sweet, melodious and oh, so infectious. They were beginning to reach the date location, only signalled by John's sudden lack of forward motion. He turned to the side, pointing at a large green wooden gate embedded in the wall, all squeaky hinges and flaking paint and invisible to the common passer by, John withdrew a rusty key from his pocket, it had been a gift from the clients of the Keyes case. At Sherlock's funeral, a pair of warm wrinkled hands encasing his own as the key was passed on, a 'final goodbye'.

"Here we are." He said gesturing as he began to lift the latch and squeak open the gate.

"C'mon then," she whispered in his ear, "show me this romantic garden you and Sherlock used to shack up in?"

John let out an indignant sigh, although it held a humour. "Molly, I wish you wouldn't."

"Sorry sweet. That's my lot for the day, promise." She pecked him on the cheek, and although since their first kiss their lips had kept a distance it did not feel uncomfortable, but it felt kind and still held that residual spark.

"Yeah, sure. I believe you. Now back to us. Welcome." His smile was warm as he spoke leading her through the rickety gate and onto the crunch of a gravel path. Molly noticed the sparkle of dull light that reflected from the smattering of beach glass in the path and couldn't help but grin. The sweeping vines that surrounded the pathway, mixed with the subtle purples and blues of the seasonal flowers called back to a little girl's dream garden, and although it was an uncharacteristically bright and sunny day, the canopy gave a cooling shade, and the dim glow of fairy lights added a sparkle to the beautiful flowers.

Their fingers had interlaced as they meandered down the path that lead to a even more secluded garden swing, overflowing with soft plump cushions and a small table set with food just beside it,  _so that's where he disappeared off to just before we left._

Molly's head found John's robust shoulder. "John," she sighed "this is so beautiful, so special, thank you for sharing this secret with me."

"There's no one in the world I'd rather share it with." He smiled, looping his arm around her shoulder and playing with the ends of her loose hair.

As they sat, the swing seat creaked slightly under the new weight of people and use, and rocked unsteadily as if getting used to an old job, relearning it's craft. It was soft and satisfying even amidst the rusting springs and drifting pollens, and even though there was pasta salad and Molly's favourite red wine sitting next to them on a charming deep oak table, they rested beside each other drawing from their warmth and the pleasant sensation of sharing mingled breath and romantically soft sighs.

Molly shivered at the thought. "We're soppy, aren't we John?" She asked pleadingly, hopeful they weren't; the two people who shared a love of adventure, of the slightly morbid, the world of Sherlock Holmes, and they were cocooned in a cliché.

"I hate to break it to you Doctor Hooper, but we are, excessively so." He said with a smirk.

"Detestable isn't it?" She mocked, that was a Holmes line and she knew it.

"Isn't it just." She could feel his words on her cheek, each exhale tickling her nose and enticing her lips, and then he was kissing her, a soft smile against her own. Their lips melded together and the passion from their first date, from their first kiss was slowed but not lessened.

Her lips tasted sweet, like the chocolate she had sneakily eaten before they had left and the cherry of her overused lip balm. The contrast was blissful as she could taste the bitter coffee that he loathed but drunk, the extra sugar he used to sweeten the blow and the tempting note of rosemary she could never quite find the origin of.

* * *

After copious amounts of kissing, and sickeningly sweet nothings, warm wine and limp salad was what awaited them.

"John, we made need to skip the food, put the wine in the fridge when we get home. We got a little distracted." She patted him arm.

"Sorry. Damn, I had this all planned. I even watched some of your awful RomComs," he sneered, "and I go and ruin it because I can't keep my hands to myself."

John looked resigned, as if he had let Molly down. And even if the army doctor would have hit anyone who even suggested he could be such, he looked adorable, like a downtrodden puppy searching for forgiveness, and Molly found it endearing.

She grabbed his face between her hands, gently, turning his face to look straight at her own, looking into the pools of gorgeously murky blue; Molly couldn't help but place another soft lingering kiss on his lips. "Hey, I wasn't complaining." She spoke against his lips, and was rewarded with a smile.

"Now we, unlike the rest of London, have the rest of the day off. Care to take this wine home, and continue our little distraction," Molly had a cheeky glint in her eye; John fell immediately fell for the flirtatiousness in Molly's nature. "Or you know, we could drink warm wine on the sofa, with 'Life On Mars' re-runs."

"An offer, Doctor Hooper, I cannot refuse." He lifted himself from the seat, grabbing the wine and leaving the soggy salad behind,  _there was time to clear that up later._

Molly's hand was soon grasped in his, and she was pulled to standing. So close, bare skin touching and flowing fabric one of the few barriers, and then they were running, hand in hand screeching laughter of joyous excitement and the empty streets a blessing.

Molly had one final blast of voice, before John lips silenced her once again, barricading her front door with their bodies. "Is this how you used to woo Sherlock, Doctor Watson?"


	17. Rapturous and Overwhelming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of implied sex in this one (and the next). Well I say implied, it's terribly obvious, but you may not even notice :P

 

_Molly had one final blast of voice, before John lips silenced her once again, barricading her front door with their bodies. "Is this how you used to woo Sherlock, Doctor Watson?"_

* * *

"I never had to woo Sherlock." John smiled cheekily, if he didn't role with the joke it would only haunt him, and with his lips pressed to the underrated join between Molly's ear and jaw, he could do little too care for the pathologist's humor.

It was the divesting that had shocked them initially. Usually undressing with a new partner in the throes of passion was an arduous and awkward affair, fumbling with un-undoable buttons, getting caught in kisses, with t-shirts somewhere in between off and on, never quite gauging the pace of this new encounter. But for them it was reasonably simple, a unanimous  _all the clothes gone before they reached the bedroom_  agreement. They had undressed each other, but not in a painfully slow way, it also, probably couldn't be classed as particularly sexy, more practical, proficient. It suited them nonetheless.

After they had made their way to the bedroom, it was slow lingering kisses and soft sighs filling the silence of the flat.

Molly felt worshipped, which was new, it was not as if she had a plethora of boyfriends before John, in fact it had only been two, with some sparse dating here and there of no real consequence. But John, she was falling in love with John, and true emotion had never been so evident in such a primal act before, it felt blissful.

John felt the same, every part of his mind was spilling over with emotion for this woman beneath him and he wanted to show her, because in that moment there were no, but gruffly breathed, words. It was as if every part of his life had been leading up to Molly, before it had been leading to adventure, to Sherlock and running, but that had always been shaking at best. And unstable foundation for an unsure future, but now, now he could see himself with Molly for the rest of his days a future of blissful content, of shared bills and morning kisses.  _Oh and_ _ **plenty**_ _more of this!_

* * *

The sex was rapturous and overwhelming, sending both parties into a state of calm neither had felt since the fleeting moments of childhood; the memories of a life with no expectations, no future, no coherent thought but the now, washed over them. But the thought of a future that lie ahead from this moment left silly smiles on their faces.

It was three in the afternoon; they'd barley eaten all day, forgoing lunch for an early desert. And they huddled to each other; John softly laced his arms over Molly's bare stomach, as Molly laid soft kisses on the still glistening scar tissue on John's shoulder (something he would have usually tried to hide, to ignore, but Molly's attention to it was different,  _Molly was different_ ) _._

"You certainly know how to spend a Wednesday, Doctor Watson." she murmured against his chest, still marveling slightly at his physique, she hadn't really gotten the chance in the lust fuelled haze.

John was doing much the same, scanning the feminine form wrapped in his arms, wondering quite what he had done to deserve such a beautiful woman. "It's not over yet, Doctor Hooper."

He clasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, placing yet another kiss on her lips, it held promise. Molly rather enjoyed promise.

* * *

They didn't leave bed until the next morning. Molly's cheeks had began to hurt as she realized she'd been sleep smiling, something that had only ever happened since John. John had also noticed Molly's innocent little smile, that tugged at her lips even with her eyes firmly closed, he had woken up before her, and had the full intention to make them breakfast, maybe even pancakes, but had lost track of time in the curve of Molly's hips, her still kiss swollen lips and the bedraggled hair that lay over her shoulders.

Molly had awoken, therefore, to be faced with John's soft stare, raking his eyes over her. They had locked eyes and shared another kiss, before Molly made the painfully obvious decision to shower.

"Ima get up, shower and stuff, don't suppose you want to make coffee?" She spoke against his lips.

"I'll make coffee and toast, maybe I'll even stretch to cereal or pancakes, but I think I may well join you in the shower first. If that's okay with you?" Her smile answered all his questions.

* * *

They had spent the rest of their lazy Thursday, lazily. Pajamas were about the most either was willing to stretch to in dressing for the day, and they ate good food whilst watched appalling TV.

It was reminiscent of when they'd started living together, but the thundercloud that had floated above their heads was forgone in favor of the sunshine, and this time languid kisses were present, where Meena or Greg were not.

_Oh, Meena's going to have a field day when I tell her about this._

_Ha, Greg is most certainly hearing about this, I don't care if he 'told me so'._

* * *

It was now safe to say that John and Molly's flat had a spare room.


	18. Visiting the Missed

Molly knelt down, placing a soft kiss to the rain-washed stone.

"I've missed you."

She smiled softly as she backed away to look fully at the grave. She hadn't visited Sherlock Holmes without John since the days after his funeral when she took a few moments alone to talk with him; even though she hadn't any work on at the time she told him of all the oddities in cadavers she had come across that she never quite got a chance to mention, even reading him some of her published papers on bruise formations that he had inspired. It's not as if she would talk about the other aspects of life with Sherlock, he'd have woken from the dead and strode away from his grave if faced with 'small talk'.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I do miss you. I was going to visit sometime or another, and any excuse to kiss you, eh?" Her laughter got lost in her throat, she may well have been comfortable around the dead, but it seemed insensitive, unusual to laugh at their graves.

"Then again, I suppose not. I probably loved your hair more than I truly loved you, and I'm thankful that you knew that. You could have handled it a bit better, but I'm thankful."

The sound of rain pattered on her cheery umbrella, and she wished she's at least grabbed the navy one, colour and cemeteries didn't usually bode well together, and unless being placed lovingly on a grave, garish flowers weren't well regarded either. Then again, it was all very Molly and even if that had annoyed in, even in death, Sherlock wouldn't have wanted her to change herself in order to fit social cues.

"I know you told me conversation wasn't 'my area', but you also told me that I counted, so you're just going to have to put up with me babbling on. Which might be something new to you, me not stumbling over my words, or stumbling over at all, in front of you. I'd have gotten here, eventually, the being able to face you and still be me, the one who can construct full sentences, the highly credited pathologist, the woman with a PhD, who wouldn't have taken half the crap you threw at me. But you won't see that now, will you?..."

A few tears rolled down her cheek, "Oh, God. You really won't." And it was her little moment of weakness, before she gathered herself together to continue talking to  _him._

"Anyway, I was here for a reason. Thought you'd like to hear about John, maybe even Greg and Mrs Hudson? If I ever knew you at all I know you'll be missing them."  _I sound a little crazy don't I?_ "John's living with me, he might have mentioned it, I promised I would look after him and I really have tried my upmost. Ummm, no better way to tell you than bluntly, we're together. I'm not sure, but I hope you'd approve of me, you already remembered my name, so that's a start." She chuckled.

"I still see Mrs Hudson for tea sometimes, she still misses you greatly, but her sister comes to visit and she's found her smile again. Hugged me a lot when she found out about me and John, I'd say she approves. Greg is good, he didn't loose his job after all, actually got a promotion after I released the video. He's with Sally, who started to fight your corner, I'd almost forget that you two used to get along, in as much as you got along with anyone." The rain was slowly petering out, so Molly closed her umbrella, shaking the remnants of water from it and tying it to the strap of her bag having it hang loosely at her side.

"Thank you Sherlock. For what you did, for saving them, but you went about it the wrong way. You could be here breathing air and being bored, telling me off for trying to converse and shooting the poor walls of you're flat because Lestrade won't give you a case. You were so clever Sherlock, but if you'd have just asked for help, told someone the full extent of all this, everyone could have been saved, including you... I'm sure I'll be back soon, sooner than you'd wish I suppose, to keep you in the loop, I know that they come and visit too, but people can easily lie about their happiness, an outside perspective never hurt anyone. Plus they don't work in the morgue, so it's less likely they'll have odd deaths to talk through with you, I know it's stupid, but I'll always feel that little bit cleverer here, thinking on what you might say, how you might solve it." Molly smiled again, she had recently helped to solve a murder case for Lestrade as she rediscovered information in her postmortem report, she did a little digging and upon thinking to herself  _'what would Sherlock do?'_ had returned to the body and found at least three incredibly definite clues that had previously gone undiscovered.

"I'll keep looking after him, just like I said. Not just for you though, for him, and for me."

Before she turned away, she placed another kiss on the cold black stone emblazoned with him name.

"Say 'hi' to my mum and dad from me. Tell them I love them and I miss them everyday, and if you even accidentally piss them off, Holmes, I'll kill you all over again. Also don't piss of John's parents, they may not be as forgiving towards your nature as he was, send them my love too, tell them I wish I could have met them, and don't scoff at the sentiment..." She said with a hint of knowing in her voice, if there was such a chance he was up there in the stars amongst a wealth of people the world had lost, amongst the people she and John, and he had lost, it was best to remind him if the kindness he could forcibly posses.

"Sleep well, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Unlike John, Molly left nothing at his grave-side, although she had noticed the distinctive NHS grey of Johns walking stick fallen to the ground by the side, she had propped it up against the grave again. No, all Molly had left behind was a clinging sense of sentiment and a sweet friendly kiss.


	19. Three Words - No Funny Business

It was six weeks later, before he finally said it, outright, to the world, to her. John had had those three little words festering in his heart and in his stomach for just a little too long, waiting to break free, waiting for the right moment, for the appropriate socially dictated length of time.

* * *

The way he had said it though, had taken him by surprise; it was hardly a romantic setting, sharing cold leftover pasta in Molly's lunch break.

They had snuck into the computer lab at Bart's with the tub full of food and two forks, feeling distinctly like rebellious teenagers and giggling like school children as they passed the 'no food, no drink, no body parts' sign, (the latter having being added after a certain, Sherlock Holmes, seemed to think it appropriate to experiment on fresh kidneys in the midst of med students and IT techs).

Molly shushed John, with her finger pressed against her upturned lips, as they reached the farthest computer desk from the door. As they sat down Molly sneakily pushed a fork into John's hand, under the simple guise of 'love's young dream' needing constant touch. The Tupperware box of pasta was then skilfully manoeuvred from her labcoat's vast inner-pocket to her lap, just under the desk they'd settled at.

John chuckled. "You've done this before haven't you Doctor Hooper?"

"Perhaps," she smiled. "Let's just say, I'm not quite the 'little miss goody two shoes' I appear to be." Before the pasta was opened Molly leaned forward, planting a teasing kiss on John Watson's lips, carefully drawing his lower lip between her smiling lips as she drew away.

He coughed slightly as they parted, gathering his composure. "I probably shouldn't be quite so pleased about that."

* * *

Soon they fell back into the usual 'how's your day been?', 'anything interesting crop up?' conversations, stifling giggles around tomatoes and pasta while the other told poor jokes. They took mouthfuls of last night's meal in a not so inconspicuous manner.

It was then, past a smudge of tomato sauce on his chin and a spec of basil lodged in her teeth, that he somewhat blurted out the sentiment. He was just staring at her, wondering just how someone sneakily eating pasta could look so beautiful, how her warm chocolate eyes sparkled with that hint of mischief they held.

"I just… I love you."

It had taken her a little for guard, but nonetheless she couldn't help but beam her response. "Well that's handy, because I quite love you too."

And then he couldn't help it, forkfuls of food finished and in the blink of an eye he was kissing her passionately, with purpose, as they smiled on the unfortunately necessary in between breaths and John whispered soft 'I love you's' over the skin of her sweetly perfumed neck as his moth worked a trail down from her mouth, taking in her hitched breath, the rising warmth of her rose-tinted skin, her heavenly soft skin.

His jacket soon found itself flung across the room, masking half a computer screen, that was flickering with the news of a medical intern's unread email; Molly's labcoat was long gone with the half empty tub of pasta, and soon her blouse laid open, showing the soft pink lace of her floral, practical, bra, although neither had a recollection of who had fumbled and released the buttons. She was straddling him soon enough, her hands beneath his shirt and her palms making their way over the smooth planes of his shoulder blades, her fingers brushing gently over the still sensitive skin of his scar tissue. Smug smiles and wanton caresses continued and the lab's IT room felt hot and steamy.

Over panted breaths and hands running through knotted hair (Molly's work didn't exactly lend itself to 'soft flowing locks') the click of the door opening went unnoticed. John and Molly did part, however, practically jumping away from each other as if their touch would now burn, and eyes blazing with a strange mixture of embarrassment and lust, when a loud *thud-crack* of a mug was heard, hot milky tea coating the carpet tiles and Molly's intern, Steve, gasping and "Oh God." As he stood glued to the spot.

Buttons were reclosed at a pace they weren't aware was achievable; Molly wrapped her labcoat back around her flustered being.

"Sorry, ah, Steve. Oh, umm… Gosh. I believe this is yours, dear," Molly said as she threw John's jacket back towards him from its place on Steve's computer. Making her way to the door and passing Steve, as she re-plaited her hair, she continued, "That was – ah – umm -  _highly_ unprofessional of me and – ah – John here. Won't be happening again, I assure you. Sorry, Steve, really - I – sorry." Molly's repetitive apologies continued even as she moved out of the room and down the corridor, the words only stopped after the thud of the chemical lab's door was heard.

Steve had somehow regained his composure by the time John had fully righted himself, well somewhat, he was rather unfortunate that his journey home would see his jacket held surreptitiously over his lap, Molly was thankfully quite lucky in that respect, her rosy cheeks being the only noticeable difference in her façade. As John excited the room, smiling but clearly uncomfortable he passed the still stoic intern.

"Hey, way to go mate. She's a hell of a looker. It's always the quite ones, eh?" Steve clapped John on the back, who left with a bemused look on his face.

* * *

John decided to poke his head into the lab on his exit from the hospital.

"Molls, I think your intern just congratulated me, on, well that. So, I suppose no need to be so embarrassed, I guess."

"You seem to have mistaken no need, with a further need to be embarrassed." Molly clapped her hands over her eyes, peeking through the gaps in her fingers at John. She made a noise that he had only ever heard humiliated woman utter. "God, Jesus. Oh mother of…"

"It's okay Molls, could have been worse… could have been Mike, and knowing him he'd have let it continue a little longer than necessary, before saying anything."

And it was that, along with her noticing the positioning of John's jacket, that had her laughing once again, loosing that uncomfortable air that had momentarily rested on her shoulders.

"John Watson, I love you." She grinned.

"I wouldn't Molls, you know where that got us last time," he chortled, "anyway I have to get back. Love you too, Molly Hooper." He left her with a soft lingering kiss, a promise of the evening to come, and Molly begged, just this once, for the clock to speed through her working day.

* * *

EMAIL.

From: sjacobs .uk

To: mstamford .uk

Subject: 'funny business'

You will never guess what I just walked in on between a certain Doctor Hooper and Doctor Watson…

**EMAIL.**

**From: mstamford .uk**

**To: sjacobs .uk**

**Subject: Re: 'funny business'**

**Really?! Well that's a turn up for the books.**

**That sly dog.**

* * *

Safe to say, the next time Molly had walked into the IT labs of St Bart's, on her floor she passed a sign reading:

'No Food. No Drink. No Body Parts. No Funny Business ;)'


	20. His Drunk Baby Sister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some swearing in the nest two chapters. Just a warning. I blame Harry myself.

"John! Why the hell aren't you at home?!" The tinny female voice at the other end of the phone was lightly slurred, and even without caller ID, John could tell it was Harry.

"I am at home Harry." He said, exasperated.

"No you're bloody well not. I've been banging on your f***ing door for ages, and that busy body old woman wont LET ME IN!" she shouted in an attempt for all the Baker Street residents to hear.

"Harry, could you  _please_ watch your mouth! For God's sake, that's not where I live anymore Harry. I haven't lived in 221b since Sherlock died,  _but of course the brandy won't let you remember that_." He could hear his sister taking another slug from the, now empty, Jack Daniels bottle (her chosen poison) in her hand.

"Shut the hell up John! I've come to London to visit my brother, not get a f***ing lecture."

"Oh Harriet," he sighed, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head, thanking Molly's weekly shop for her current absence. "Just get a cab, put me on speaker phone and I'll get you here."

"Whatever. Big. Brother."

Harry stuck out her hand, the one not holding a shockingly empty glass bottle, as she stood on the kerb of 221 Baker Street, she wobbled into the road, her body addled with drink and her brain cloudy, but functioning enough to not get knocked down by the approaching cab, well that, and the cabbies quick reflexes.

She plopped her full height onto the back seat, the tall gene had skipped John and gone straight to his sister. Her hair was the same dull blonde as his, and clearly hadn't been washed or brushed in sometime, it was sitting atop her head in a rough, unkempt bun. She would have rumpled her clothes if they weren't already overly creased with wear as they hung loosely from her slight frame; brother and sister clearly holding the same penchant for jumpers.

"B – hiccup – Baker Street, please, thanks." The cabbie held a confused expression until the sent of alcohol that clung to the woman reached his nose, he was about to tell her she was already there, chuck her out,  _I mean it's just the afternoon, hardly a time to deal with drunks._ That was until he heard a distinctly masculine sigh followed by a deep distant voice, and he noticed the phone in her hand.

"No, Harry. Sorry, um, mate. I don't suppose you could get her to 23 Corfield Street, just off Bethnal Green. I'll wait outside, pick her up, and give you a little extra for your trouble. Sorry. Again."

"Yeah, sure, course." The cabbie began to turn off the road, making his way to the new destination.

"Thanks mate."

* * *

The cab pulled up outside Molly's building; John was standing on the pavement, just beyond the cool metal exterior steps that lead up to  _his?_   _their? our? Molly's?_ front door. He flagged down the cab, hearing it screeching to a stop and spotting a distinctly unpleased cabbie in the front seat, having been in the company of a drunk Harry he could only empathise.

The cab driver rolled down the window upon seeing John, hoping he was the face to match the crackling phone voice, he let out a sigh of relief as a flood of 'sorry, really very sorry's' came from the man in question, he smiled to calm the apologetic man.

"'S okay mate. I drive a cab, I'm no stranger to a drunk passenger."

"I'm just really… I know what she's like," John grimaced.

"Honestly, you're girl fell asleep the minute we turned off Baker Street." He smiled.

"Oh God, no. She's not my  **girl** , she's my sister," he chortled. "Anyway how much do I owe you?"

The cab driver chuckled in return, "Ah, sorry. The fare's £15."

"Here, have £20 for your trouble, I'll just collect her and be out of your hair."

* * *

After a good ten minutes of lifting, and falling, John had managed to manoeuvre Harry from the cab, and a further fifteen minutes of struggle saw them stumbling through the front door.  _Thank God I left it on the latch._ John practically dumped Harry down onto the sofa; safe in the knowledge she had never been a throwing-up type of drunk, no matter the mixture of spirits and hops.

"Well if it isn't Johnny. When did you get here?" she said, smiling sloppily.

"Harry, you came to me. Somehow. Said you came to visit your big brother, but before we even get to that, you need to sober up a little. I'll get you a few pints of water, and some food, something dry, we've probably got some bread somewhere." John would have chastised himself on the 'we've' slip up; Harry was yet to hear about his and Molly's relationship, yet to really hear of Molly at all. But thankfully a drunk Harriet Watson was not a perceptive Harriet Watson.

"Just what big brothers are for…"she mumbled, before promptly falling into drunken unconsciousness.

* * *

It had been two hours when Harry woke fully, in her stupor she had glugged down all three pints of water and eaten the two crust slices of bread, (sans butter or jam), he'd laid out for her. She was nowhere near sober, but also as far from drunk that John could hope for.

"John? Where the hell am I? Why's everything so pale green? This isn't 221b, is it?" she spoke groggily.

"Harry, I haven't lived in 221b for quite a while, this is Molly's flat. Welcome and all that." He smiled weakly. As she had slept every alcohol saturated memory of his and Harry's broken relationship was dredged to the surface of his mind, the love for his little sister drowned and ebbed away by the whiskey and gin; always to resurface but every time with a stronger bitter aftertaste.

"Who on God's earth is Molly?" Harry practically spat her name.

"Can we not shout? You're sober enough to at least attempt conversation, please?" He sighed.

"Fine, but my question still stands, who's Molly?" she glared at John, who was sitting on the edge of the short coffee table, facing squarely the, just about upright, Harry.

"Molly is my best friend. She took me in when Sherlock passed, and after I got over myself and realised some blatantly obvious things, we started going out. I suppose you could say she's my girlfriend."

"And you've moved in with her! You hadn't even told me! In fact, you have barely spoken to me since that fake genius topped himself."

John took a deep breath, counting slowly to ten in the back of his mind, as he had always done when Harry's mouth ran away with her. He would have fought anyone else at this point, punched them, screamed, shouted and left them bruised at least, but this was his drunk sister after all, and no amount of abuse he could inflict would be worse than what she does to herself. He felt sorry for her, and she'd never much had a filter anyway.

"Just. No. Harry. Anyway, you wouldn't have remembered if I told you, you couldn't even remember that I no longer live on Baker Street."

"Well why are you already living with your little 'girlfriend'? Too early, even for 'three continents', surely?" she sneered.

"I was living here for months before we got together, she sorted my head out after Sherlock, and I'm still in the spare room." One little lie couldn't hurt if it stopped Harry's snide remarks. Even if anger was spilling from his very core, he had to hide smirk upon his last comment.  _Well, some of my clothes are still in the spare wardrobe._

"Harry, why are you even here?"

"I fell off the wagon. Clare left me again. And I thought, for one idiotic minute, my  **brother** would want to support me." She sighed far too dramatically.

"So money." He said, matter-of-factly. "On an army pension and tenuous clinic work, and you think I can afford to fuel your bloody tenth hop of the wagon!" The anger had risen in his voice as he had risen to his feet, towering over her in a way he could only do whilst she was sitting, and the best he could do with his stature.

Harry didn't cower though, she was still far to inebriated to feel fear, and far to clever to fear her brother; even amidst the red mist that clouded his vision John could never, as the honourable gentleman he was, lay a finger on his 'baby sister'.

She smiled smugly. "More of a place to stay…"


	21. The Wrath of a Hooper

_She smiled smugly. "More of a place to stay…"_

* * *

Molly had chosen the as the perfect moment to clatter her keys against the door, a very elaborate display for an always failing method to open it, especially whilst pulled down with bags for life. John swiftly moved to open the door, thunder in his step and only the thoughts of a cheery yet struggling Molly, clearing his mind momentarily of Harry's selfish assumptions.

He yanked open the door to be faced by bag laden arms (at least three on each), and Molly with a goofy smile surrounding the plastic handle that was gripped between her teeth, her shoulders sagged with the weight and the wrong key was clutched harshly in her left hand. John couldn't help to forget his anger, the foul language that had been floating around his head amongst thoughts of his sister, at the sight of Molly Hooper. A weight fleetingly lifted from his tense shoulders and his smile matched hers.

Then again, Molly was an observant creature, managing to catch the red mist that had been in his vision seconds before.

"Arb yub okai, luv?" She spoke around the plastic.

"Need a hand with that?" He chuckled. John grabbed over half the bags hauling them onto the dining room table. Molly followed close behind, focused upon his back; his stance was almost imperceptibly different, stiffer,  _sad?_ and even though something else in the flat felt off, wrong, she kept her whole attention on him.

"John, be honest with me, what's wrong love?" Worry filled her voice.

And the two thoughts ran through her mind, either John was an excellent ventriloquist or there was another rough feminine voiced person in her home.

" _Love,_ is it?"

Molly spun around, to be confronted with a remarkably taller, longer haired, and very female John, who stunk of booze and looking not much better than one of her 'patients'.  ** _Harry._**

"Oh, um, yes it is quite. You must be Harry? John's told me all about you." She smiled sheepishly, it was not all good, far from it, and she'd never been much of a fan of a looming drunk.

"Shame, he hasn't  **once**  mentioned you." Harry smiled, the perfect companion to her mock, biting sweetness.

"I guessed. It's been some years since you two have talked properly, anyway, I never come up much in conversation." Molly concealed her bolstered jump of confidence with a somewhat self-deprecating comment, always a wise plan of attack.

John, by now was standing beside Molly, his hand placed protectively and comfortingly on the small of her back, "You're wrong there, you're very much all I talk about," he whispered in her ear.  _That helped._

Harry decided to ignore the affectionate display and continue with her previous line of thought.

"So, Johnny, big brother," saying those words had been like a well delivered kick in the ribs to the man in question, but his previous conviction returned, over and above the sympathy and hellish self-deprecation he would have otherwise endured.  _Thank goodness Molly's here._

"I'll assume you're 'sleeping' with this  **one** , and seeing as the phoney detective kicked the bucket, they'll be a spare room?" She continued nonchalantly.

Molly shivered at the brutal and inconsiderate mention of Sherlock, and the insinuation that this woman was anywhere near welcome in her home, she managed to just about squash the feeling down.

"Don't..." John's tone was sure, yet he wasn't quite sure who he warning.

"C'mon John, so what? We're a broken family. I'm sure Little Miss Perfect here will understand, eh? Sweetheart." Harry patted Molly's arm as his bubbling anger began to spill over.

"Don't. You. Dare. Harriet Watson." He seethed.

"Oh don't 'Harriet Watson' me, you're not our bloody father, and you're a poor excuse for a brother, you don't put your **tart**  ahead of family! High and mighty doesn't quite work when you're just another worthless bastard." Confrontation, Harry at her best. John was confident he could deal with the sharp words, console Molly over the cutting assumptions, and take her out of the firing line. Minimal casualties.

Then again, Molly was a one to choose her moments.

"Get  **out** of my house." She was fuming, but strong, standing her ground.

"Excuse me?" Harry found the woman laughable.

"Oh, don't play dumb, you're  **drunk** , not  **stupid**! I said get out. You can say whatever the hell you like about me, that doesn't matter. I don't know or respect you well enough to care. I was even near letting the Sherlock one pass; I mean the rest of the world was corrupted why shouldn't you be. But John is your  **brother** , family, as you have been more than happy to remind him when it's at  **your gain**. And I will not hear a bad word spoken about this  **godsend**  of a man in my home, just because you're far too ignorant and self-indulgent to see what he really is, and what  **this** , what  **you** , do to him; does not mean he is not the most decent human being I have ever met. He's worth a  **million** of you. So if you would kindly get the f**k out of  _our_  flat and take your petty judgement and scorn with you." Molly exhaled fiercely, restoring her breathing, calming herself.

"John, are you hearing this?" Harry stood in disbelief, trying to play yet another round with the sympathy card,  _one too many_.

"Yeah." He said, unable to keep the proud grin from his face.

"Fine! I'm gone. Thanks for nothing.  _Brother_." She hissed.

And with that Harry was gone, out the door with a wobbly dramatic flourish, and as the slam of the door reverberated through his being John let out a sigh of relief, one he'd been holding onto for fifteen years.

Molly, on the other hand, panicked.

"Oh, no. God John, I'm so sorry, what have I done?" A tear slid down her cheek.

"What I've wanted to do for fifteen years, but never had the guts. Hey, don't cry. What you just did was amazing. Thank you." He placed a soft kiss on her cheek.

"Good…" Molly's voice was soft, a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

"Did you mean all that 'godsend' nonsense, you said about me?"

"None of that was nonsense. I meant every word." He pulled her into a tight hug, planting a kiss onto her soft hair that met her forehead, a comfortable silence enveloped them like a well-worn blanket, and they settled their breath and regained control.

"Better get this shopping away, before the ice cream I spotted becomes just cream." With that they parted, listening to the radio as they sorted Molly's half a day's work. It was life as close to normal as those two knew it.

 


	22. Traditional but not Gosling

“Molly Hooper, will you do me the greatest honour and, no… ah Molly, Molls. God’s sake Molly, will you marry me? Maybe?” John Watson shook his head violently, hoping to erase the words that had just clumsily fallen from his lips, in the silence of his and Molly’s empty flat. He was treading a steady path into the, now worn, carpet of the room he had once occupied. Pacing was an understatement.

He’d been taking more and more ‘moments to himself’ when Molly popped out to the shops or to work. The second John knew he was alone in the flat he would find himself aimlessly staring at the same object that held a good eighty percent of his attention at all times. Sitting on the rarely used sheets he used to sleep in, the deep blue around him calming his thoughts. It had all started in that room, it made sense to seek the comfort of the familiar features; the strong influence of Molly’s late father still held true, the tin cars still parked neatly on the window sill, but little bits of John peeked through the cracks. He could see his clothes hanging neatly in the wardrobe and would have chuckled at how Molly required so much of her own wardrobe space, meaning he found himself with no more than one outfit in their shared room, but again the eighty percent of his attention beckoned the remaining twenty.

“Okay, Molly. I love you. Will you please…”  _Sounds too desperate. She’s allowed to say no, she could still say no._ “Would it be alright if I asked you to marry me?”  _Would it be alright?? Christ I need help!_

__

John’s feet began to thud softly over his familiar tracks once again, the repetitive motion helped him think, or at least took his mind back to why he was fumbling with a strangely petite ring box in his left hand. The box was a deep blue, crushed velvet affair, and if it hadn’t of been an antique he would have certainly turned his nose up at it. When he popped it open, checking for the fifth time in the last minute that the ring hadn’t somehow disintegrated, been teleported or something equally illogical, his eye caught the sparkle of the neatly set stone. He’d spotted the ring in an antique shop, one he’d become well acquainted with. It was Molly’s favourite place to wander, she loved to get lost in the dust of leather-bound first additions, or fantasise over the glimmer of jewellery that brought to mind her mother; John had simply frequented the shop for the love of the smile on her face. When he’d seen a new addition to the shop window, John had made every rash cliché decision in the book, storming to the cash register and outright buying the engagement ring before having really considered the engagement. He loved Molly, that was certain, and having seen such a lovingly crafted piece of aging silver twining together like leaves and meeting at a perfectly opal emerald, there was no place else he could imagine it but Molly’s slender finger.

The emerald was a beautifully cut stone, the deep green suited his perception of Molly more than any diamonds on a classic band would have, she’d mentioned her love of the stone and had worn a simple set of the stones on more than one of their dates. The set matched the ring perfectly and John was proud of his choice matching the gift Molly had received from her father on her eighteenth birthday.  _And who cares if we haven’t discussed marriage yet?_

The ring had been in John’s possession for over two weeks now, and in that time there had been an unnecessary amount of rehearsed speeches, ever one falling flat to John’s wishes. It was how to say it; he couldn’t quite form the words without his tongue fumbling at the first syllable, either that or the words sounded forced and he wanted to say no on her behalf. Bringing it up in conversation would be too casual, yes, their relationship had fallen easily into the domesticity of a ten year relationship, but that didn’t mean a proposal should be any less special than those done by wild young lovers in passionate, fast-paced love. John Watson, though, was neither casual nor, wild and young, he was traditional and that’s what he wanted in a proposal.

“Molly Hooper, I have loved you for longer than I dared admit, from that God awful day to this very second it has grown exponentially and will forever continue to flood my heart. You brought light to my darkened vision and breath to my aching lungs and a second without you love would last to long. Marry me?”

__

“John… I can’t say yes…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to my fabulously patient housemate. You put up with me on a daily basis, and I have finally, finally written the next chapter. Love ya!  
> -  
> It's been an extremely long while I know. I have few and far between excuses, but this is getting finished and soon!! 
> 
> I love you all, if you're new, hey! If you've stuck by me through all of the many chapter-less months, well done my friends.
> 
> Okay doaky, see you for more soon, let's clear up that cliff hanger shall we...


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